Shattered
by lightinside
Summary: After losing her brother during his second tour in Afghanistan, Katherine Watson is lost and alone. When Sherlock, her brother's flat mate, contacts her, she chooses to become his 'replacement' flat mate, as neither of them can stand to be alone. But as someone who has never before taken this kind of a risk, can she handle it? Or will they both lose more than they bargained for?
1. Chapter 1

_**Hi guys! I had an idea and decided to let it play out! If you like it, I'll continue writing. I look forward to your feedback! Let me know what you think! **_

_**-lightinside**_

* * *

When someone dies, how do you keep going?

That was the question I kept asking myself. I didn't understand how the world could keep spinning when all I wanted it to do was stop. I didn't understand how people could come up to me and be 'sorry for my loss' when they had no idea what it felt like. How could they really be sorry? _How could this be happening to me? _

A hand clamped down on my shoulder, making my heart leap in my chest for a few seconds before I looked up into my mum's sad eyes.

"Katherine, can you please go over and talk to Harry?"

I looked over at Harry who stared forlornly at the grave in front of him. I didn't want to go anywhere. I didn't want to move. I didn't want to make conversation with my estranged brother. But I didn't argue. I walked over to where Harry stood and didn't say anything for a long time.

I didn't look at him. He didn't look at me. I think we both preferred it that way.

Harry finally spoke. "Mum sent you, didn't she?"

For a few seconds, I felt bad. Mum had given me the job she didn't want and now I realized that even though Harry had screwed up in regards to his family and to us… that he had lost his brother, too. I hooked my arm through his and leaned my head on his shoulder.

"I'm glad you're here." I said.

It wasn't a lie. I knew that I was underneath all of the hurt I felt at seeing him here. He hadn't been home for nearly two years. I hadn't thought that he cared anymore. I should have known better.

"They aren't." Harry told me, cutting his eyes toward our parents.

"Forget about them. Mum and Dad always have something stuck up their asses. You know as well as I do that when you've been here for a few days, they'll forget about everything else. It's how they operate."

Harry sighed and pulled away from me. "But they won't. I'm not staying."

I felt my eyebrows knit in my confusion. "What do you mean, you're not staying? You have to stay. Mum needs you. _I_ need you. What the hell do you mean?"

My brother's eyes glazed over and I knew that nothing I said was getting through to him. He wasn't paying attention to me anymore. Harry was going to take off and I was going to be alone with my grieving parents.

As the only girl and the youngest out of three children, I had learned how to make myself into less of a big deal. I would be the one trailing behind them, picking up the dirty dishes they cared nothing about. I would be the one saving the forgotten wash from the machine before it soured. I would be the one forcing my mum to eat. My dad would be drowning himself in extra work at his office. And Harry, once again, would have disappeared.

I was desperate to make him hear me. Before I could stop myself, I uttered the six words that I knew would alienate my brother from me forever.

"John would be ashamed of you."

With a start, Harry looked up at me and in that moment, I was the one ashamed of myself. No matter what I felt, nothing gave me the right to say that. _Nothing_.

The seconds stretched on. Apologies tumbled around in my head, unspoken words of regret sitting on my tongue. Yet, I couldn't say any of them. I didn't know if it was pride, or if it was the shock at what had come out of my own mouth. I just knew that the longer I stood there, the clearer I could see my opportunity at reconciling with my brother slipping away.

Finally, without a word, Harry shook his head… and walked away from me.

I closed my eyes. I took a deep breath. I burned inside.

Somehow, I knew without having to look around that people were leaving. No one wanted to stay. They had offered up what they could, sorries and one too many tuna casseroles, and now they were making their escapes.

I envied them all. I wanted to run away and never come back. I wanted to be the one who didn't understand what this kind of pain felt like. But the fact remained that I did know what it felt like and that I _understood_ it completely.

My brother was gone and nothing I did would bring him back.

I don't know how long I stood there. I couldn't remember when everyone had gone. I knew that suddenly, the sun was high in the sky and that I was very, acutely aware of my aloneness.

I was twenty-four, I had a job in the mailroom at a movie studio in central London, I was a social pariah, and I had no boyfriend. Now, my brother was dead.

Somehow… I had known. When he had been drafted the second time back to Afghanistan, I could feel it. I knew that he wouldn't make it home. But, he was an Army doctor for God's sake. He was _supposed_ to make it home.

I braced myself and finally tore my eyes away from the black marble tombstone. I knew that the moment I walked away, it would be real. I would be leaving him here while I went to live a life… whatever kind of life I could have after this.

The reason for all of the pity… the reason for all of the grief… people would move on. They would forget. But I wouldn't. I knew the name behind the reason.

My brother; John Watson.

Somehow, I turned my back on him. I walked through the cemetery and to the car that waited on me at the entrance. Before I climbed in, I looked back one time. That was all I allowed myself. Ten seconds. Twelve.

I bit my lip and climbed inside.

* * *

Back at my parent's flat, I sat in my old room and waited. My mum was in denial. My dad was gone. And I was alone.

I fell back on my bed with a sigh and stared at the ceiling, wondering if I could make a break for the door and escape notice. When I decided I couldn't, I draped my arm over my eyes. The sunlight was smothered from my view and I was finally where I felt the most comfortable. In the dark.

My phone chimed from its seat on my bedside table. I sighed moodily and reached for it, finding that the Caller ID was unknown.

**Katherine Watson? **

**-SH**

I stared at the screen for a moment, wondering if I should answer. The initials seemed familiar. I wondered who could be looking for me. Maybe it was another friend of the family that missed the funeral and wanted to pay their respects. The longer I stared, the more disinclined I felt to respond. Just as I was about to put my phone down again, it chimed.

**I'm waiting.**

**-SH**

I felt a disbelieving scoff escape my mouth.

**Who do you think you are?**

Staring at the screen, waiting for a response, I felt my irritation begin to grow. This time, I was irritated with myself. I had caved. I had answered a stranger, a very _rude_ stranger, when I knew better.

Several seconds after I had begun to mentally kick myself, my phone chimed again.

**Sherlock Holmes. Last I checked.**

**-SH**

Sherlock Holmes? It finally clicked for me. John's old flat mate. God. What did _he_ want? Though, underneath my inclination to tell him to piss off and never think of him again, I hesitated. John had always spoken so highly of him. Well… not at first. After the first year they'd known one another, John had taken to calling him his best mate.

Of course, not to Sherlock's face. John said that the moment he heard that, the man's ego would have swollen to the size of a hot air balloon. I decided to text back something that was borderline disinterested.

**What do you want?**

As I pressed send, I realized how cold I sounded. But that didn't stop Sherlock from responding.

**If convenient, come to Baker Street.**

**-SH**

Before I could respond, he texted again.

**If inconvenient, come anyway.**

**-SH**

Now what? Was I supposed to go? He might have some of John's old things to give me. Or he might need someone to talk to. From what I understood, Sherlock had really only one friend to speak of and that had been John.

**Address?**

Several seconds passed. I wondered if Sherlock had changed his mind. If he had, I could still go to Baker Street and ask around. Though, I would rather not seem like I was stalking someone I hardly knew.

**221 B. Upper flat.**

**-SH**

Upper flat? Did someone else live there? I ignored the barrage of questions that beat against my brain and stood, grabbing my jacket on the way out. I was still in my dress from the funeral, but I didn't care. What did it matter now?

As soon as she saw me, my mum was on high alert. "Where are you going?"

"I have a few errands to run." I said. I knew mentioning John's old flat mate would be a mistake. "I'll be back in a few hours."

"You're not going anywhere." She insisted, standing up from the couch. "You're staying right here."

"Mother, I'm going out." I repeated. "I already texted Mrs. Alvarez next door. She's coming over to stay with you until I or Dad get home."

"You are my _daughter_."

"Yes, I am. And your _daughter_ has errands to run."

I walked out the front door, ignoring the sound of her angry cries following me until the door shut. Mrs. Alvarez walked out of her flat and smiled at me sadly.

"How is she?" She asked.

"I would let her know that it's you before you walk in. She might think it's me and try to hurl a vase at your head."

Before she could ask questions, I took off down the stairs and hailed a cab at the street corner. I tried not to overthink what I was doing. I didn't know why I was even going. I just knew that Sherlock was, frankly, one of my last connections that I had to John.

Anything he had to say was worth hearing.

When the cab pulled up outside of 221 B, I got out and stood on the curb as the car pulled away. Now was the time to change my mind. Now was the time to forget all about Sherlock and walk away.

I shook my head at my own stupidity. No way was I leaving now. I walked up to the stoop and took hold of the crooked golden knocker, tapping it gently against the door several times before taking a step back and waiting.

"Coming!"

When the door opened, I came face to face with an elderly woman, probably in her late sixties with short gray hair and sparkling eyes. I realized she had on yellow cleaning gloves and an apron and I, for some reason, felt terrible for interrupting her. But she was beaming at me with one of the most motherly smiles I had ever seen, and put me at ease almost immediately.

"Hello, dear." She said. "Can I help you?"

"Um… I'm here for Sherlock?" It sounded like a question rather than a statement.

"Oh! Might I ask who's calling on him? Can't be too careful."

"Katherine…" I swallowed. "Katherine Watson."

The older woman's eyes lost their sparkle. "Oh, dear. Come in." She ushered me inside and closed the door. Before I could even ask about Sherlock again, her spindly arms were wrapped around me in an inescapable hug. "I'm so sorry. I loved John like a son."

I didn't want to be rude, so I muttered a thank you and wound myself out of her embrace without making it seem too rushed. She seemed sweet and I didn't doubt what she said about loving my brother. So, I decided to put aside my impatience and worked on being caring so that I didn't accidentally hurt her feelings.

After a few more seconds, I asked; "Is Sherlock here?"

"Upstairs. Should I let him know you've arrived?"

Upstairs, a door opened. "For God's sake, Mrs. Hudson, stop chatting and send her up!" A baritone voice called, clearly exasperated.

Mrs. Hudson sighed and looked over at me with a shake of her head. "He's been so lost without John around. I hope you can do him some good, dear."

"_Mrs. Hudson_!" Sherlock shouted down the stairs.

I braced myself and cast Mrs. Hudson an apologetic glance before ascending the stairs.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Thank you so much! The response for the first chapter was stunning! You guys are amazing. I would like to extend a special thanks to Littlebirdd for being the first review, as well as AmeliaRoseOswald and Lady Gisborne 15 for being the two after that. It really does mean so much to me! I hope you like chapter two! **_

**_Again, thank you so much!_**

**_-lightinside_**

* * *

When I entered the flat, I couldn't help but feel a little stunned. My brother had always been a very neat person. Everything was just so, in its assigned place. _This_ was something entirely opposite. Piles upon piles of books were crammed _everywhere_. In corners, on tables, on the floor, teetering on the edge of the too full desk. Papers spilling out of folders littered the coffee table. Sheet music was tossed about carelessly, almost as if it had been discarded out of boredom after it had fulfilled its purpose.

I took a few steps inside and found that the kitchen was very similar. What _should_ have been the dining room table was instead a miniature science lab, full of beakers and jars of miscellaneous parts… I thought for a moment I saw one full of human eyes. The counters were crammed with equipment and forsaken glasses and plates that were gathering dust from disuse and even _more_ books. Volumes upon volumes, fiction and non-fiction, biographies and manuscripts.

I tore my eyes away from the horrendous mess and found, sitting in a black leather chair across from a red, plaid armchair, a ridiculously lean figure with curly hair of the darkest brown with an angular face and piercing, intelligent eyes. He was plucking at a violin lazily with long, pale fingers, the bow leaning against the chair just in his reach.

"Sherlock Holmes?" I asked softly. "You contacted me. I'm – "

"Katherine Watson. _Obviously_." He sighed, almost as if he was aggravated. "Your powers of observation are positively _astounding_."

My mouth fell open and I felt, now more than ever, impossibly cross. What on earth had my brother seen in this man that had brought them to be best mates? I didn't understand. Just one more thing on a long list of things that I didn't understand, now that I was thinking about it.

"Look, you asked me to come here." I said. "I didn't have to!"

"And yet, here you are." Sherlock said, setting down his instrument. "At a stranger's request. I do say, your desire for trouble nearly matches your brother's."

"My brother was an Army doctor. He didn't _desire_ trouble. He thrived on it."

Sherlock made a thoughtful noise in the back of his throat and clasped his long fingers under his chin and took to studying me as one would study something of little to no interest. "And what about you? What do _you_ thrive on?"

"Ask me when I know."

Sherlock leaned back in his chair, legs sprawled out in front of him. "You have a medical degree and yet you work in a mailroom. Why?"

"How do you know that?"

"_Why_?" He repeated.

I began to fidget. There was one thing that was becoming glaringly obvious to me about Sherlock Holmes, and that was the fact that he had a way of making me _extremely _uncomfortable.

"The closest job offer I had was in the States. With John going back into the Army, I was afraid to leave my parents alone. So, I got the part time job at the mailroom. It pays the bills."

Why I was answering him was a mystery to me. He had no right to the details about my personal life. I was here on his request and on the hope that he was going to give me some small piece of my brother. I knew my parents hadn't come by. If they had, John's belongings would have been vacant from the entire flat, and yet I saw them everywhere. His laptop sat on the small table by the red chair and some of his patient files were stacked haphazardly beside it, as if he would be coming back any second. Like he was out going to the shop instead of lying six feet under.

I felt my hands begin to tremble and I clenched them into fists and stuck them in my pockets. With a forced swallow, I found myself looking back over at Sherlock.

"Do you have any of John's things for me? I assumed that was why you asked me here."

Sherlock scoffed and stood, towering over my slight 5'6 frame at what I estimated to be at least 6'1. "You were wrong to assume." He said, and breezed by me as if I was hardly even there.

"So… you _aren't_ going to give me any of John's possessions, then?"

"You continue to astound me with your _astute _observations." Sherlock muttered, fussing over a microscope that sat on the kitchen table. I hadn't noticed it before. Looking at it now, I realized that it must have been buried behind a stack of books that Sherlock had only just swept into a chair.

"And I'm astonished to find that you are a very ill-mannered man." I snapped. "My brother spoke highly of you and, now that I've met you, I have no earthy idea why."

Sherlock's eyes snapped up from the microscope lens with a start. For some reason, what I had said seemed to bother him. And still he said nothing.

"Since you have no need of me, I think I'll be going." I turned on my heels and rushed out of the flat, past Mrs. Hudson who was in the process of carrying up a tray of tea.

"Katherine, dear?"

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Hudson." I apologized without slowing, "I can't."

But saying it out loud, I didn't really know what it was that I couldn't do. I didn't know if I couldn't tolerate his rudeness. Or if it was the fact that he seemed so unaffected by John's death. If he had been pretending for my sake, like some people had been earlier in the morning, I might have recognized it and tried to ignore it… but he seemed _genuinely_ unaffected. Like this man whom my brother cared for so deeply thought absolutely nothing of him.

I heard the door slam behind me and I flinched at the sound. My eyes scanned the curb frantically for a taxi and, to my dismay, didn't find one. There was no way that I was staying there a second longer than I had to. I started to walk.

Not long after I had left the flat, my phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out and saw that I had a text from Sherlock.

**Would an apology help? –SH**

I didn't know if I should answer. All this text had done was further piss me off and I was afraid of what I might say should I dignify it with a response. Finally, I groaned and gave in.

**Do you have one to offer?**

I wondered what smart arse thing he would respond with, what he would say to make me feel like more of an idiot. Which I _wasn't_. I had a bloody medical degree. No way in hell was I stupid. But something about Sherlock made me feel inferior.

As I was in the middle of yet again overanalyzing what Sherlock could or couldn't be, my phone buzzed for a second time.

**Simply asking if it would help. –SH**

I huffed and shoved my phone back in my pocket. The absolute _nerve_. But then I remembered something John had told me long ago after he'd first met Sherlock.

_"__He comes across as a complete dickhead, but when he works, he's brilliant. He just has no clue about how he should interact with other human beings."_

And, as if my brother were right beside me reminding me of what I should do, I dug out my phone once more and sent three words.

**Ask again tomorrow.**


	3. Chapter 3

_**Hi guys! Thank you so much for your reviews! Specifically AmeliaRoseOswald and Danielle! Just, wow you guys, thank you. And I hate to tell you this, but I don't know how much time I'll have to write today because I'll be babysitting for eight consecutive hours. I hope you enjoy chapter three! Please leave me reviews so that I'll have something to look forward to! **_

_**I love you guys! Thanks!**_

_**(Please excuse any typos you may find. I've re-read this chapter twice and found a few and fixed them, but if I missed any more, I'm sorry.)**_

_**-lightinside**_

* * *

The next morning, I woke up and took to staring reflectively at my ceiling. I didn't know what I felt… or more accurately, what I _should_ be feeling. If I tell you the truth, and I don't really have that much of a choice because I _suck_ at lying, I think I should let you know that I didn't feel very much at all.

All I could hear was the sound of birds chirping outside my window… and the empty silence that came with the rising of the sun. It seemed to fill me up and to tear me down all at once.

I felt like one massive contradiction. And just when I was about to become hopelessly tragic, my phone buzzed.

Bleary eyed, but wide awake, I checked it.

**I heard about John. I'm in town for a few days if you want to get together. And I promise, I won't bring you casserole. Just hard liquor. – Dana**

For the first time in the past week, I felt myself begin to smile. Dana Kendall, my best friend since grade school, was back in town. I knew that seeing her would be the best medicine in the world right now, _especially_ if she kept her promise about the alcohol.

Her mother had been at John's funeral. I suppose Dana had heard about the profusion of casseroles, which didn't help any of us at all. All you have after the affair is all said and done is your grief and an abundance of uneaten casserole taking up all of your extra counter space.

I sighed and texted back almost immediately.

**Liquor, you say? **

Several seconds later, she replied.

**Whiskey or Vodka? –Dana**

I thought for a moment.

**Both. Both is good.**

I could imagine her laughing, which made me a little happier. Dana had the kind of laughter that infected the people around her. I could remember the countless sleepovers and movie marathons that had basically shaped our social lives throughout high school. Dana had gotten a scholarship to UCLA and had ended up leaving me behind to go to school. We had tried to stay in touch, but the long distance had proven to be too much. She still texted when she was in town, but it was a very rare occurrence indeed when we actually saw each other.

This time, though, I was determined to make the rare occurrence actually occur. My phone chimed again. I was surprised to see that it wasn't from Dana, but from Sherlock.

**Awake? –SH**

Slightly confused, I wondered why _he _would be texting me this early in the morning. Nothing surprised me when it came to Dana… but _Sherlock_…

**Something wrong?**

Images of horrible things kept flashing through my mind. An accident. A fire. A mental breakdown. Hospitals and ambulances and fire trucks (oh, my!).

**Not in the slightest. Wondering when you would like that apology. –SH**

I rolled my eyes with a sigh. To think that I had been so worried. He was perfectly fine, just like he had been yesterday… and with that thought, I remembered why I had been bothered enough to leave his flat yesterday after hardly staying five minutes. Which made me remember why he was offering me an empty apology.

Or was it?

**By your silence, I assume that I still am not forgiven. –SH**

From the way he was talking, I felt like he was really making an effort. But I didn't know if I was nothing more than a mildly interesting _thing _that had breezed through his door, or if he was genuinely trying to get to know _me_ in his own way.

I _was_ John's little sister. Maybe he had mentioned me. Maybe… maybe Sherlock needed a friend.

**If you keep texting me, I might ****_have_**** to forgive you, apology or not. You're surprisingly persistent. **

It was the longest response I had given him yet. There were so many 'maybes' and 'ifs' swimming around in my head, I felt like taking a Valium and going back to sleep. But I wanted to see what Sherlock would say.

**Shall I continue to prove myself? –SH**

I found myself laughing at his attempt to lighten the mood. As I was answering back, I noticed that for a moment, a fraction of an instant, I had been almost happy.

**Up to you. **

The next reply came within seconds.

**Baker Street. Noon. –SH**

I shook my head and then dropped my phone beside me on the mattress. He'd been almost charming… right until the very end. I didn't see how John had put up with Sherlock's tendency to be so _demanding_.

After a few more minutes of debating, I decided that I would go. Even though I had seven hours to kill in between now and noon, I could still get ready and slip out of the house before anyone else was awake.

What surprised me most, I think, was that I had thought I would be the one taking care of my parents. Now, I realized that what I was doing was running away from them. I didn't want to be around when they shattered. I didn't want to see that. I didn't want to dwell on it. I didn't want to _know_ that they were capable of falling apart.

But I knew that neither of them could hold it together all the time… I just didn't want to witness the moment when they knew it, too.

So, I got up and showered and dug quietly through my closet in an attempt to find something other than jeans to wear. Eventually, I gave up and grabbed my _Paramore_ shirt that I had gotten at their last concert and slipped it on over my favorite pair of dark wash jeans. I threw on my blue Converse, which had obviously seen better days, and put my long, dark hair in a bun.

It was Sherlock. I could dress it down and not feel guilty in the slightest.

By the time the clock was ticking toward the better part of seven o'clock, I was out the door. I didn't know how in the world I was going to occupy my time, but I knew that I couldn't stay in that flat for another second.

Finally, I decided to text Dana again.

**Are you out?**

She texted back almost immediately.

**Are you? – Dana**

I waited to respond until I was in a cab and on my way to nowhere.

**Couldn't stay home. Meet at Blandford's in twenty?**

For a few seconds, I worried that she would be at home, in bed. Or that she was out and had already eaten. I worried irrationally about _every_ possibility I could think of until she responded with:

**Make it ten. – Dana**

I smiled and pocketed my phone. I told the driver where I was going, and found myself willing the time to pass faster than I had wanted it to in a very long time.

As I rode, I started to think about Blandford's and my last trip there, traditionally taken with Dana. What you have to understand is that a trip to Blandford's is not an undertaking one must undertake lightly. It requires days of planning and a clear schedule. A typical breakfast will take around 349 days to arrive. It's the Guinness of the breakfast world – good things come to those who wait.

You have to prepare yourself for the sort of surly service that makes you wonder how a restaurant stays in business. The guy in charge tends to wear faded jeans so tight you wonder whether he sprays them on in the morning. Or whether he put them on when he was 12, realized they were irremovable and was consequently doomed to wear them for the rest of his life. The look is topped off with an equally hugging, and no less fetching, white t-shirt. My hypothesis has always been that tightness of clothes is directly proportional to grumpiness.

As you order you get the feeling that he's deliberating over whether he can be bothered to serve you. Maybe it's all a bit too much effort. Or he doesn't agree with your choices. It had the sort of aloof charm Dana had always loved. I did, too, when it didn't screw with my breakfast.

What made it my choice for this morning, though I cringed internally about what I would find as a result of my choosing to go on a whim, was its proximity to Baker Street. Dana and I could chat over an early breakfast, walk around for a while, and I could dash over to Sherlock's flat with no problem.

But, what quickly turned my brightening morning back into a funnel of dark emotions was spotting that same mop of brown curly hair as I walked into Blandford's. I didn't know what to do. It might not be him… right?

What didn't really help my case was the moment Dana stood up from the corner booth and started her ritual of waving and squealing, like someone might over a new car or a Golden Retriever. God knows that I would rather have been a dog in that moment than Katherine Watson.

_Don't make eye contact. Don't make eye contact. Walk over to Dana… calm, cool, casual… _

"Katherine!" Dana squealed. "Oh my gosh, look at you!"

That was it. I wanted to crawl under a rock and die. I knew he was watching. I could feel his eyes on me, studying my reactions, or, more appropriately, my _lack_ of a reaction. Why was he so interested in me anyway? It was just… unnerving. When Sherlock looked at me, I felt like I couldn't hide anymore. I couldn't lie to myself, as I had grown accustomed.

It was a different kind of feeling entirely when all you wanted to do was disappear, and you knew you couldn't because no matter what you did or didn't do, there would always be _one_ person who just _knew_.

But, I did my best to plaster a smile on my face and hug Dana and chat in a way that had me nostalgic for the earlier years of our friendship. And it would have worked, if Sherlock hadn't still been sitting in his booth by the door, watching.

I knew that sooner or later, he would text. Or worse, he would come over and introduce himself to Dana, forcing me to face the one subject that I had still blessedly managed to avoid thus far.

When Dana finally excused herself for the Ladies' Room, I heard my phone chime twice. I didn't want to look at it. Everything in me screamed to keep my hands wrapped around my coffee cup and pretend like I didn't hear it.

And then it happened again. Three texts. Four.

I fought the urge to shoot Sherlock a murderous glare and fished my phone from my pocket to see what on earth he had to say that couldn't wait until noon.

**Morning person. How interesting. – SH**

**I wouldn't eat that. - SH**

**Those sausages look absolutely horrifying. –SH**

**Katherine Watson, are you snubbing me? –SH**

I fought back a smile, realizing that he was completely right about the shriveled sausages that sat on the edge of my breakfast plate. And that brought me to another realization. The fact that Sherlock was going to keep texting me until I replied was what prompted me to respond immediately.

**In addition to your day job, are you also a stalker?**

A low hum reached my ears and I knew that he was in mid response.

**Perhaps. –SH**

Now he was trying to make me paranoid. I looked up towards the ceiling with a halfhearted eye roll and found that I was also fighting the urge to turn around and look at him. _That_ stunned me. I didn't have too much time to dwell on it. Dana returned from the restrooms with a look that screamed 'Don't hate me', and I knew that she was about to leave me here alone.

"God, Kat, I'm sorry." She said as she reached me. "I have to go. Mum called in hysterics about Jon and I have to split."

Jon was Dana's younger brother. In the back of my mind, I wondered what had happened to get Mrs. Kendall so flustered, but I then remembered how she had nearly had a coronary when Dana had first started wearing red lipstick when we were seventeen. I dismissed it immediately.

"It's fine," I heard myself say. "I'll just finish breakfast and call you tomorrow."

Dana gave me a hug that nearly squeezed all of the oxygen from my lungs and dashed out the doors. I swear, I could feel the guilt rolling off of her even out on the street. Before I could abandon my sorry sausages and leave Blandford's, Sherlock was suddenly standing in front of my booth.

He didn't seem remorseful, or teasing, or seem to feel anything other than what I noted to be cool indifference. I raised an eyebrow in silent question, which he answered by clearing his throat.

"May I?" He gestured to the seat across from me, eyes gauging every move that I made.

I nodded, giving him my silent, but still hesitant permission. As he sat down, I couldn't help but feel like we had waltzed into _The Godfather_. You know, where everyone is sitting around the table looking at Don Corleone, completely silent as they wait for his word to become their law. That was exactly what this was like. Both Sherlock and I were utterly still, regarding one another with only the slightest interest as we waited for the opposite party to say _something_.

This was, by far, one of the most ridiculous things I had ever experienced. The seconds slowly stretched into minutes and I was feeling suddenly like what I imagine animals at Sea World must feel like. Scrutinized, exposed, _trapped_… and something similar to terror began to bubble in my chest.

And even though I was being sucked into a black whole of nothing, all I could think of was Don Corleone.

'Never let anyone outside of this family know what you're thinking'.

But Sherlock saw everything, I knew he did.

I knew that he could see etched in me, the pain of my parent's impending separation. I knew he could see the turmoil that turned my insides black with agony over John's death. And I knew that Sherlock Holmes was completely alone in more ways than I ever would be.

He existed in a separate realm, totally cut off from the rest of the world in that he saw the things people couldn't. I'm not saying he understood them, but he chose to see the things people ignored. The things people forced themselves to forget. The things people buried so far away from the light, it nearly dragged them down in the dark, too.

That thought was finally what prompted me to begin our conversation.

"What happened to Baker Street at noon?"

Sherlock's shoulders moved skyward a fraction of an inch in a way that made me think he was shrugging. "How was I to know you wander the streets of London before 8 AM?"

"And Blandford's was your first choice?"

"I could ask you the same."

I noticed that he had a way of speaking incredibly fast, but then he would slow right at the end of his sentence. For some reason, I found that I liked it. It was different.

"So, why don't you? Ask me _something, _Sherlock." I leaned back against the booth, willing my muscles to uncoil. Why on earth was I so _nervous_? "Anything you like."

"I already know everything I need to know." He said coldly. "The rest is irrelevant."

A battle was warring inside me, and I wished that I would just lower my inhibitions and let myself say whatever I needed to. But John's words kept running through my mind like a mantra:

_"__He just has no clue about how he should interact with other human beings."_

So, instead of cussing him, I counseled him.

"All you know are the facts. Have you even thought about asking me about other things?"

"What more is there?"

"Plenty." I said, though really I had no clue what 'plenty' encompassed. "Childhood pets. Middle name. Best friends. Favorite movies. Reading material of choice." I kept naming off trivial things, hoping that one of them might catch his interest. Luckily, one did.

"Middle name." He said. "Your parents obviously have a habit of picking rather unfortunate ones." A smirk curled up his thin lips at the edges, his eyes sparkling with the happiness of a humorous recollection. "_Hamish_?"

"Oh, God. John went through his life denying that to every means possible." I laughed softly to myself, remembering how he used to lie on all of his school papers and replace 'Hamish' with 'Higgins'. I never understood how that was in any way better, but he claimed that it saved him total social ruin. And then I wondered how Sherlock could have possibly weeded that out of my brother. "Wait, how did you know his middle name was Hamish?"

Sherlock hummed, "Made a copy of his birth certificate."

I nearly choked on my shock. "Isn't that illegal?"

He waved his hand in the air in a gesture of dismissal. "It was necessary." And then his eyes hovered over me again. "Now. Your turn."

"If I don't tell you, are you going to _steal_ classified information?" I asked him, unable to wipe the smirk from my face.

"It's not stealing." Sherlock replied hurriedly. "Just a step that I am feeling rather too idle to take. But if you aren't going to surrender it willingly…"

A blush began to burn its way towards my cheeks, sending flames licking down my neck and upper back. My skin crawled. I _hated _this. "Linnet." I mumbled, "Katherine _Linnet_ Watson."

Sherlock's eyebrows arched. "That's… not bad."

"_Now_ you decide to tiptoe around my feelings."

"Really, it's not bad." He promised flatly and then pointed at my plate. "Are you going to eat that?"

I made a face. "Do you want it?"

"Certainly _not_." Sherlock pushed the plate to the side and slid out of the booth, looking back at me impatiently. "Are you coming?"

At this point, I knew I had two options. I could either go with Sherlock, or I could stay in a booth_ alone_, reflecting on the painful details of my miserable life.

I slid out of the booth, left my money on the table, and followed him out the door.


	4. Chapter 4

_**I livvee! So, yeah. I survived my babysitting job yesterday and I'm back with a new chapter! I came back to some lovely reviews and lots of new and equally amazing people that have deemed this story worthy enough to follow and favorite! You guys really made my day. **_

_**Thank you xXSchmayXx for straightening me out on that little detail about primary school, I really appreciate it! And also, thank you to Lady Gisborne 15 and AmeliaRoseOswald for simply being their wonderful selves and reviewing just because. **_

_**I should mention that I'm thinking about eventually having POV splits between Sherlock and Katherine, just to give you some insight into the mind of everyone's favorite consulting detective :) Do you guys think that's a good idea? Or would it be too confusing for everyone? Just think on it for me! I would love to hear your opinions. **_

_**Okay, well, without further ado, I will leave you to read chapter 4! I hope you enjoy!**_

_**-lightinside**_

* * *

Back at his flat, I sank down into the red armchair that sat in his living room, looking around once again in awe at the _chaos_ that surrounded me. Sherlock sat in the black armchair across from me, his fingers clasped thoughtfully underneath his chin.

"How do you feel about the violin?"

I hesitated, not certain what relevance this had to _anything_. "Um, I… I find it lovely. Why?"

"I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you?" He asked. "Potential flat mates should know the worst about each other." Sherlock threw me an outrageously false smile, to which I could do nothing but blink. Everything in my body felt like it was short-circuiting, and for several seconds I thought I had misheard him.

"I'm sorry, _what_?"

"_Flat. Mates_." He repeated tiredly, enunciating each syllable in a way that made me feel inferior, and then muttered; "I do so hate repeating myself."

"Who said _anything_ about flat mates?" I asked. "I know I didn't."

Sherlock gestured around the room. "I am short one flat mate and you need a change of pace. What more reason do you need?"

"_A lot_ more." My voice had risen several decibels and I wondered if it was normal for my heart to be beating so quickly. "I hardly know you."

"But I knew your brother." Sherlock reminded me swiftly.

"You don't know _me_. I am _not_ my brother." I insisted, rising from the chair. My insides were twisting and heaving like I was falling from a great height and I suddenly felt as if I was going to be ill. "This is crazy."

Sherlock had the decency to seem worried, but he never opened his mouth to ask me if anything was wrong. I was grateful for that. If he had, I would surely have gone lightheaded.

And I was also glad that he didn't ask, because I had no answer to give him. I didn't know _what_ was wrong, or why it was making me feel so sick. Maybe it was the thought of attempting to replace my brother in Sherlock's life coupled with the knowledge that I couldn't. There was a hole in my life, and in Sherlock's. But it was a hole that only John Watson could fill. All we could do for each other was provide a sorry excuse for what we were missing.

"You _can _say no." Sherlock said finally.

In my panic, I hadn't really thought about saying no. The option hadn't even occurred to me. Realizing that I had a choice helped clear my head. I took a breath and shook my head, halfway in between shock and resignation.

"I need to think about it." My eyes scanned the flat with disdain. "A lot of things would have to change."

Sherlock scowled, "Like what?"

"I can't live in this mess. It's shameful."

"This _mess_ is my work." He muttered. "And there's nothing wrong with my organization. Everything is exactly where it should be."

I bit my tongue to keep from retorting too quickly. _Heaven help me_. And then the strangest thing happened. I wondered what it would be like if I were to move into 221 B. If I were to have someone other than my parents to worry after. I would have something other to do than sit at home and wallow. John wouldn't want me to. I had to stay busy… and Sherlock seemed just like the kind of full time distraction I needed.

"Fine." I said finally. "But the kitchen _has_ to be a kitchen. No science experiments. No… jars of miscellaneous human organs… and _no_ heads." I could remember John calling me only two weeks after he'd moved into the flat with Sherlock, hysterical over a human head he'd found chilling in the icebox. Sherlock had claimed that it was for an experiment.

"My experiments are crucial to my work." Sherlock snapped grumpily. I assumed by his reaction that he wasn't used to being told what to do.

"Your experiments can be conducted elsewhere." I argued, crossing my arms firmly. "If you want me to live here, those are my conditions."

An exasperated sigh escaped his lips, and he stared at me for what felt like an eternity before he nodded – a quick bob of his head that let me know he'd heard what I said. I couldn't help but feel _slightly_ smug. If he was agreeing, I knew that he really wanted me there.

"You can move in tomorrow."

I pursed my lips. Did he really give so little thought to what went into moving? "I have to pack my things, Sherlock."

"So pack." He watched me curiously, obviously wondering why I was making it out to be an ordeal. For a second, I thought he might be screwing with me. That he was seeing how far he could push me before I would snap. But then, the longer we stood there looking at each other, the more I saw that he was absolutely serious.

In my mind, I was running through everything I could say that would avoid confrontation, or that would end up downplaying how ridiculous he was being. I didn't want to make a big deal over it. I just wanted to move in and be done with it.

Of course, that wouldn't be _it_. I would eventually have to tell my parents that I was now sharing a flat with an anti-social, violin playing, experimenting, consulting detective that happened to store heads in his ice box from time to time. From what I knew so far, that was what Sherlock was to me. And I found myself wondering if he would ever be anything more. I wondered if he would eventually become my friend, as he had John's. Or if he would always keep me at a distance as I was starting to think I might have to with him.

I couldn't lose someone else. And the closer I let him be, the more of a risk he was. So, flat mates we would be. Nothing more.

"I'll bring a suitcase over in the morning. The rest of my things, I'll move in one at a time." I didn't really expect a response from Sherlock. He'd already picked up his violin and begun to stare at it in a way that made me think he was on the verge of playing. I knew that he was hardly paying attention to me, and so I began to look around once more. In the process, my eyes fell on John's patient files. Who was going to take care of the clinic? Who _had _been?

"Sherlock?" I found myself asking, "Who's been filling in for John at the clinic?"

The detective hardly looked up at me as he picked up his bow and scraped it gently across the taut strings of his instrument, soliciting a sweet sound from it before he answered me. "Doctor King. Don't know the first name. Wasn't important."

"Do you think…?" I tore my eyes away from the patient files and shook my head. "No. Never mind. I… uh, have to go, yeah?" I looked towards the door and then back to Sherlock, who was now watching me curiously. "I'll let you know when I'm on my way in the morning."

He never let me know that he heard me. I watched for a moment as Sherlock tucked the instrument under his chin where it seemed to fit perfectly into the familiar cavern between his chin, collarbone, and shoulder. The fingers of his left hand tightened possessively on the neck of the violin before they arched, landing gently on the strings with a touch as light as the brush of a butterfly's wing. He raised the bow in his opposite hand and began to play without reluctance, ignoring the fact that I was still standing there waiting for a response.

And for a moment, I was frozen. A sound reached my ears that I had never before heard, even in concert halls. A music so full of anguish that I found myself looking away. By the time I was able to will myself to take a step in the direction of the stairs, Sherlock's back was to me and he was no longer in my world. I could sense his separation and for a moment I felt in the room, coupled with the sound of his sadness, his overwhelming desire to be left alone with his thoughts.

So, I left. Without thinking about giving Sherlock a proper goodbye, I slipped down the stairs and down to the front door without his noticing my absence. The music never quieted, even as I walked out onto Baker Street and crawled into a cab.

As the car took me away from Baker Street and away from Sherlock, his music still echoed in my mind. I took to watching the city outside pass me by, blurring and spinning and going on and on seemingly without end. I wondered when I had begun to feel so _small_. I guess that there are times in your life when you realize how trivial some things are… some of the things you thought that were the most important… and this was one of those moments for me.

I had stopped myself from having a life out of concern that my parents weren't capable of living their own. I had ignored the fact that I had been affected by John's death, too, thinking that I was the one responsible for holding everyone else together. I was the one who had denied myself the possibility of so many things because of the aspects of my life that were uncertain. Basically, the longer I thought about it, the more I realized how I alone had profoundly screwed up my life.

I wasn't responsible for my parents. _They_ were. They were adults, as was I. Separation or not, their emotional welfare fell to them and to them alone. Not me.

By the time I arrived at their flat, I was a hurricane of conflicting emotions. From the music that haunted my soul to the pieces of myself that I had long since forgotten existed, I was in complete turmoil. Dreams that I had denied myself were presenting themselves once again in my memory – wishes of a bright future that had never really come to be.

I was still a million miles away when I walked through the door of my parent's flat. I could tell that they were both home. The tension was so thick, it was nearly smothering. Sneaking to my room to pack up what I had brought for my stay here wasn't an option, as my father peered out of the kitchen at me as soon as the front door was closed.

"KW?" He called softly, "You've been out for quite a while."

I tossed my bag down in one of the living room chairs and walked past him in the kitchen straight to the fridge, digging through it for something decent to eat. Expired… _almost_ expired… I made a mental note to go out to the shop later in the afternoon before I turned back to my dad.

"I had some stuff to do." I said finally. "It couldn't wait."

He nodded halfheartedly without saying much else. The thing I appreciated the most about my father was that he didn't ask questions. He didn't suffocate me with rules and guidelines like Dana's parents did when she was home for a visit. But I think that also had something to do with the fact that I was predictable, right down to what I would eat for breakfast. For some reason, I found myself wishing that, just once, I would manage to surprise them. That they would look at me for longer than the three second cursory glance I got when I walked through the door because they weren't worried about where I'd been or who I'd been with.

I suppose that was the thought that let the words slip from my mouth.

"I'm moving in with Sherlock Holmes." I blurted whilst drumming my fingers on the granite countertop. The way I said it, so nonchalantly, caught my own attention. It was as if I was already used to the idea.

"_Who_?" My dad was obviously trying to place the name at the same time he was questioning my ability to make sound choices. The poor man was thrown for a loop. Usually, I would have felt some measure of remorse, even if it was nothing more than a _hint_. But now, I didn't. The choice was made and I was happy with it. Nothing else mattered.

"Sherlock Holmes." I repeated, looking up at him calmly. "John's old flat mate."

"The _loon_?"

My eyes rolled of their own accord. "Oh, _dad_." I groaned. "He's not a loon. He's different. And different isn't a bad thing."

"Different is _dangerous_." He muttered harshly. "I've heard the stories your brother had to tell about this Holmes fellow, and I've read his _blog,_ whatever it's supposed to be. I don't want you anywhere near him."

The only thing that stood out to me throughout his mini temper tantrum was the word 'blog'. "What are you talking about? What blog?" I knew that John had one, but Sherlock? I imagined him then, sitting up late at night typing away on his computer, rumpled from a lack of sleep, tongue between his teeth, trying to figure out the perfect way to end an entry. The thought would have been comical if I hadn't been completely mystified. What purpose would a blog serve Sherlock Holmes?

"Yes, his _blog_." My father reiterated, giving me a huffy sigh. "The Science of Destruction or whatever."

One of the manuscripts I'd seen lying around Sherlock's flat came to mind. It looked like a detailed journal of some sort, now that I thought about it. "_Deduction_?"

He waved his hands around his head as he did when he was extremely flustered and I had to keep myself from laughing. When something had my dad vexed, he was as moody as I had been as a teenage girl. "Deduction, yes, that."

_Mental notes__: _

_Go to the shop._

_Look up blog._

I knew that I was smiling when I caught my father's pouty stare. I cleared my throat and pressed my lips in a flat line. "Sorry."

After another moment, a tired sigh made its way from his parted lips and he shook his head slowly.

"I can't stop you, can I?"

My heart melted, then. I wound my arms around him, tucking myself neatly under his arm like I had as a child and looked up into his green eyes, the eyes that he had given to me. It was a moment before I shook my head, smiling at him in a way that conveyed silently that this was what I wanted.

My father's arms tightened around me and he laid his chin on the top of my head with another sigh.

"Can I at least ask you why you're doing this?"

"I need a change." My voice sounded sympathetic, gentle, but not _soft_. I realized that I was finally taking charge of the fact that I could make my own choices and my father was realizing that he was no longer in the position to tell me that I couldn't. "And I could ask you the same about mum."

He pulled away just enough to look into my eyes.

"How do you know about that?"

I raised an eyebrow. "Dad. Mum has been walking around the flat for days reading nothing but books on two subjects – how to handle death," I ticked the first topic off with my index finger and then raised my thumb, "and divorce."

My dad grimaced. "How do you feel about it?"

"Dunno." I murmured. "Are you going to be happier? The pair of you?"

A long silence fell over us. I could see that he was thinking, trying to make sure what he said would reassure me in some way… but then he just gave up.

"I don't know."

Instead of trying to say something encouraging, I leaned my head against his chest and closed my eyes. The smell of Gillette and Obsession for Men by Calvin Klein reached my nose and I found myself committing it to memory. It was more than just a smell, now. It was my _dad_. The things I associated with him had created, in their own way, a cushion for me to fall back on.

I would always have Gillette and Obsession, but I knew that I would not have James Watson forever. And this thought, instead of making me feel pressed for time, made me cherish the time I did have. I would have this moment to take with me for the rest of my life.

My dad and I both at a crossroads, no longer lying to each other about what we had both tried to deny. Everything was moving so fast, but for some reason that was okay, because there was one thing that I knew about life:

It went on.

Whether you went with it or not, it went on. And this time, instead of bringing my world to a halt to take a thousand deep breaths that helped nothing… I would go with it.

"Will _you_ be happy?" My dad's scratchy voice reached my ear, slightly hopeful for what I might have… and slightly apprehensive over what I might not. "With Sherlock."

A short, swift sound came from my throat. I didn't know if it was a laugh, but it was something similar. After a few minutes of thinking and wondering about all the possibilities that lay before me, the good and bad, I pulled away and looked up at my dad's searching eyes and I gave him the most honest answer I had.

"I don't know."


	5. Chapter 5

_**"We cannot tell the exact moment a friendship is formed; as in filling a vessel drop by drop, there is at last a drop which makes it run over; so in a series of kindnesses, there is at last one that makes the heart run over." -Gloria Naylor **_

* * *

The next morning, I awoke to the ringing of my phone. I reached over as far as I could without opening my eyes. Unfortunately, that was also what caused me to lose my grip and go crashing to the floor. But, hey, I had my cell phone.

I answered it in the midst of glaring at the ceiling and blaming Dennis Quaid for all of my misfortunes (because, let's face it, it helps to blame _someone _and it might as well be him).

"Yes?" I growled sleepily, rubbing my eyes. Whoever the _hell_ this was would be sorry they called by the time I'd said what was on my mind.

"Katherine Watson?" A woman's voice floated through the line. "This is Sarah Sawyer from the clinic. I know it's early, but I just received your application and I would love for you to come in."

"Applica-" I immediately shut myself up. Yesterday, I had begun to ask Sherlock about the clinic. He'd more than likely seen the way I was staring mournfully at John's patient files. I'd even asked about it. Had he…? No. Surely not. He even told me that they'd already found a replacement. "Right. That application. Um… come in for…?"

"You see, that's the thing. I was going to offer you a job as an assistant, something small, but it seems that Doctor King has turned in his resignation as of last night. I'm completely swamped and given your degree and experience, I could really use your help." Sarah's words were rushed, making it evident to me that she was terrified that I was going to say no. But I was beyond elated. A job at the clinic, finally putting my degree to use… it was more than I had hoped for at this point.

"When would you like me to start?" I could barely keep the smile out of my voice.

"Oh, thank _God_!" Sarah breathed. "Is today soon enough for you?"

"Today is perfect. Can you afford to give me an hour?"

"Absolutely." She said. "I'll see you then!"

The line clicked and I was left sitting in my floor, rumpled from sleep, grinning like I'd just won the lottery. My first impulse was to jump up and dance around my room, but I reigned myself in.

_Shower. Eat breakfast. Drop your suitcase at Sherlock's. Go to the clinic. _

I repeated the above in my head until I was convinced I could have made a song out of it. I went about my morning just as I always had, with the exception of the fact that I was practically skipping through the flat and singing _We Are the Champions_ into my hairbrush.

By the time I had gotten to Baker Street, I was _beaming_. My suitcase was in my hand and my laptop bag was slung over my shoulder along with my purse and as I rushed up the stairs to Sherlock's flat, I felt like Julie Andrews standing outside of the von Trapp mansion, swinging her bags and striding forth into the unknown with confidence.

When I came bursting through the door, I found that Sherlock was waiting for me in his chair, reading what looked to be a book on Norse Mythology. Seeing me, he snapped it shut with a _thump_ and placed it on the coffee table.

"Katherine?"

"Hi." I kept trying to wipe the stupid grin from my face, but it wasn't working. So, there I stood, grinning like a fool at the man in front of me who looked as stunned as if I had walked in and slapped him across the face. "I brought some of my things. Is that okay?"

"Yes…" Sherlock said slowly, still watching me warily.

"What?" I asked him finally. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"You're… _happy_." The way he said the word 'happy' made me think that he found it to be one of the most abnormal things in the world. But, I nodded despite his inflection and the grin was back.

"I got a job at the clinic!" I squeaked, "Well, _the _job at the clinic. Doctor King quit, so I'm taking his patient load." And then I had the chance to look around. If I had been a character in a cartoon, my jaw would have dropped to the floor. The kitchen was almost spotless, clear of all science equipment and various mutilated parts. Bags were still lying around, however, which made me think that Sherlock had gone to the shop. Books were also stacked against the walls, but there was a clear path around the room, making it look like _organized_ chaos instead of straight-up anarchy.

He had _cleaned_.

"Uh…" My mouth opened and closed several times and Sherlock began to shift uncomfortably on his feet. I didn't mean to put him on the spot, but I was just so _stunned_…

"This _is_ what you wanted." He reminded me, but the sentence hovered somewhere between a question and an uncertain statement.

Without answering, I found myself checking the living room. Where the books had been on the table between the windows, I saw the microscope and some of the other equipment that had once been in the kitchen, but no jars (thank God). A smile sprang to my lips. He'd found a loophole in my request. I'd said 'not in the kitchen'… so he'd moved it to the living room.

Still, the gesture had me floored.

"Sherlock… how long did this take you?" I asked as I continued to look around.

He relaxed almost immediately. "All night."

"All _night_?" Guilt began twisting my stomach in knots. "You didn't have to-"

"I was up to begin with." Sherlock interrupted me smoothly, "Thinking."

"Oh. Well… thank you…"

My thanks was not acknowledged with anything other than a quick nod. As soon as he had done this, he walked quickly into the kitchen and began scanning the books lined against the wall, looking for something specific, I supposed.

For at least two minutes, I stood gaping at the flat that surrounded me and at the man who had considered, much to my surprise, what I had wanted. It was one of the nicest things anyone had ever done for me. I was so lost in thought, I scarcely noticed when Sherlock breezed past me and sat down in his chair once again.

He opened his book and didn't bother to glance up at me as he asked; "Don't you have somewhere to be?"

My eyes widened. The clinic! I put down my things and grabbed my purse before calling out a hasty goodbye and half stumbling down the stairs.

Everything else was a blur.

As soon as I walked through the doors of the clinic, my confidence evaporated. My nerves were frayed and my stomach was flopping so much, I thought I might be sick. I wanted this so badly… what if it didn't work out? My legs somehow managed to keep moving forward and I found myself at the front desk, staring at the woman who'd called me in; Sarah Sawyer.

"Katherine?" She asked hopefully, standing from her chair.

I nodded, afraid that if I said anything, I would embarrass myself. For a few seconds, I think Sarah was waiting to see if I would say something more, but when I didn't she realized why. With a laugh, she patted my shaking hands that I had somehow managed to set on the counter without knowing it.

"Don't worry." Sarah assured me. "Everyone's first day is a little nerve-wracking."

"No kidding," I choked out, swallowing hard. "Um… what am I… where…?"

"You only have a few patients today." As soon as I heard those words, my pulse began to slow considerably. "And your office is straight back there." She pointed down the hallway to a large wooden door with that said Dr. Brian King. "We'll change that as soon as possible."

"Wait, I…" I pointed to the door that seemed to taunt me, "I have my own office?"

Sarah laughed softly. "Of course. We aren't going to make you work out in the hall."

"But a _proper_ office?"

Her eyebrows arched for a moment, "You haven't had a job like this before, have you?"

I shook my head slowly. "I did a few internships, but never…" The words were failing me epically. Nothing I was thinking was going to come out the way I meant it, so I decided the best course of action would be to shut up.

Sarah led me to _my_ office and gave me a short list of instructions to follow, showed me how to use the phone extensions and left me to calm down a little before I saw my first patient.

I found myself pulling out my cell to text Sherlock. This time, it wasn't weird. I didn't question it. He was my flat mate and I had a strong suspicion that this was all his doing.

**So surreal. **

Two words. That was all I wanted to say. I wanted to find some way to express how amazing this all was, but that was what came out. And it was true. It was all incredibly surreal.

Several seconds later, I got a reply.

**Bringing your patient files by the office. Left them here in a hurry. –SH**

Oh, _shit_. I had forgotten the extra files. I wondered if Sarah knew they were gone, or if she missed them at all. Maybe they were solely John's responsibility. Either way, I knew that I probably needed them.

**Bring them by at lunch. **

I didn't bother to put my phone away, as I knew that Sherlock would answer back as quickly as he could. It was nice, having someone you knew you could depend on. Not that I was really _depending _on him. I suppose I liked the fact that we were in an unspoken, mutual agreement to _not_ ignore each other.

And then his answer came.

**Talk then. Have something I want to run by you. –SH **

Even though I was confused, I tried not to think about what the 'something' was that he wanted to run by me. Besides… I had a job to do.

* * *

Twelve o'clock came and went and Sarah informed me that I had seen all of the patients that I was going to today. Six of them. Three had been diving for pharmaceuticals (and were promptly sent home), which didn't surprise me very much at all. I'd heard about people like that from my brother.

I found myself wiling away the time, waiting for Sherlock to arrive. The 'something' he'd mentioned was driving me bonkers. For a while, I assumed the worst – that he wanted me out of the flat. But then, I started thinking about his job, which reminded me…

I pulled my chair up to my desk and opened a web browser. In the search box, I typed exactly what my father had mentioned earlier 'The Science of Deduction'. Much to my own amusement, the site was the first on the page. He called himself 'the world's only consulting detective'.

I wondered if that was indeed true. I'd never heard of a consulting detective before, not until John started rambling about 'Sherlock this' and 'Sherlock that' and 'you should meet my flat mate, you'd understand what I was talking about'.

The longer I surfed Sherlock's blog, I saw that he had archived many of his older cases and that I was unable to read about them. Disappointed, I started to surf his more recent posts. There was one that said 'Analysis of Tobacco Ash: DELETED!'

I clicked on it with my cursor and was redirected to a folder called 'Case Files', which held several of Sherlock's last cases he'd apparently taken on with my brother. I narrowed my eyes and clicked on one labeled 'The Blind Banker' and I was once again redirected, but to my brother's blog. There it all was. Every case they had taken together, and I had never known about any of it.

'The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson', it said. His picture was there and everything. Before I could let myself fall into despair, I scrolled down to his recent posts and found one with the headline 'A Strange Meeting'. It was all about the first time John had laid eyes on Sherlock Holmes. I found myself reading it with a fondness that was almost foreign. John spoke of Mike Stamford and their trip to Bart's Hospital to see Sherlock, and since I knew all about Mike, I skimmed until the information was relevant to why I'd opened a web browser in the first place.

_"__Except, he didn't. He didn't introduce us. The man knew who I was. Somehow he knew everything about me. He knew I'd served in Afghanistan and he knew I'd been invalided. He said my wound was psychosomatic so he didn't get everything right but he even knew why I was there, despite the fact that Mike hadn't told him._

_I googled him when I got back to the flat and found a link to his website __**The Science of Deduction**__._

_It's mad. I think he might be mad. He was certainly arrogant and really quite rude and he looks about 12 and he's clearly a bit public school and, yes, I definitely think he might be mad but he was also strangely likeable. He was charming. It really was all just a bit strange._

_So tomorrow, we're off to look at a flat. Me and the madman. Me and Sherlock Holmes."_

"What are you doing?"

At the sound of Sherlock's baritone voice, I involuntarily jumped about two feet into the air and frantically clicked out of the window all the while trying to act normal. Sometimes, I wonder why I even try. "Nothing. Nothing at all." I rose from my chair, rubbing my palms down my thighs as I did so in an attempt to keep them from sweating. "Ready?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "For?"

"Oh, right. I forgot." I tried to keep myself from babbling. "Sarah's letting me out early. I saw all the patients I needed to. I'm free for the rest of the day."

"Hmm."

"Let me grab my coat."

It was mid-October, I then realized, and Sherlock hadn't said a word about his work to me. He hadn't even given any indication that he was on a case… or that he _had_ any to solve. I wondered why that was as we walked out the door. Sherlock grabbed a cab and we climbed inside, both of us silent.

I noticed his attempt to sit as far away from me as possible. He was almost pressed against the window. He would have been if he'd gone a few millimeters further. And then I noticed that I was doing the same.

Our hands were in our laps, his flat on his thighs and mine clasped together, and our eyes were either on the floor of the car or looking out the window at the bustling city around us. Neither of us said anything at all and I wondered how long it was going to be this way. The thought of things being strained like this all the time didn't encourage me very much.

But it was so quiet, so unbearably quiet, that I was actually _afraid_ to speak up. This was a concept that was entirely new for me. I knew that I was damaged, in more ways than one, but with John's death I had grown worse.

Of course, Sherlock didn't know that on my most miserable nights, I cried myself to sleep. And he didn't know that on more than one occasion, I had taken a sleeping pill to give my aching mind some relief and had stared longingly at the bottle for more than an hour afterward, wondering what it would be like if I took them all – wondering what it would be like not to hurt. Sherlock wouldn't understand why I slept with my light on. He wouldn't care about the fact that I had nightmares that nearly paralyzed me with fear.

But I could see that he was wrestling with his own demons, too. Whether it was over the fact that his best friend was no longer in his reach, or something else entirely, I couldn't be sure. All I knew was that he was alone and so was I and, in that way, we were perfect for each other.

And his words from the previous morning came floating back into my mind: _"What more reason do you need?"_

I knew then that Sherlock had been right. I _didn't_ need a thousand reasons why I should do something. I needed only one, and he had given me that from the very start.

I just didn't know it yet.

* * *

**_Note: The Science of Deduction and John's blog are ACTUAL websites, as well as Molly Hooper's diary and Connie Prince's website that they make brief mention of in series one, I believe. BBC set them up and I found them by accident as a result of my own curiosity! You guys should check them out. I loved them. Maybe you guys already knew about them. I never looked, so this is entirely new to me. _**

**_I look forward to what you have to say about chapter 5!_**


	6. Chapter 6

_**WOW, you guys! Thank you so much. I had several wonderful and encouraging reviews from AmeliaRoseOswald and sherlockedbyben! I really appreciate that, guys. You just have no idea. The response to 'Shattered' has been incredible and honestly has made the past few days very surreal for me. I'm so thrilled to be posting my work for you all to read. **_

_**I hope you enjoy chapter 6! **_

_**-lightinside**_

* * *

The next few days passed me by, almost indistinguishable from one another. Depression was finally settling in and I was beginning to feel the weight of what I had lost. That night, I was lying in bed and Sherlock was in the living room, playing away on his violin. He hadn't spoken to me all day, just made a little grunt of acknowledgement here and there and, if I was lucky, a lift of an eyebrow or a shrug. Finally, I had decided to just leave him be.

Even though I was acutely aware of how miserable I was, I was also aware that somehow, Sherlock made it better. Listening to the sound of his bow dancing across the strings of his violin was oddly comforting, no matter the tenor of the music.

The light was on, my door was shut, and I was on my side, under my covers with my eyes wide open. I had bid Sherlock a good night at least an hour ago with the intention of going to sleep, but once I'd crawled in bed, the desire had left me immediately. Tonight was another night I knew that I would be watching the sun rise. And Sherlock gave no indication that he was going to bed _at all_.

Finally, I groaned and threw back my covers, choosing to ignore the fact that Sherlock had yet to see me in my pajamas (and that the ones I was wearing were covered with various images of Buggs Bunny) and I slipped out quietly into the hallway to listen to him play.

When I was almost to the living room, Sherlock stopped.

"I thought you were sleeping." He said, not bothering to turn around.

"Couldn't." I replied simply, not divulging the reason why. "You don't mind an audience, do you?"

"It makes no difference." Sherlock murmured, but contrarily began to put his violin down on the table. I wondered if I had intruded upon him, or if I was unwelcome even if he didn't say it.

I sat down in the red armchair as he sank down tiredly in the chair across from me. I could tell that physically he was wide awake, but mentally he was exhausted. Basically, he looked how I felt.

"Can I ask you something?" I blurted, leaning forward. "What do you do when you can't sleep?"

He gazed at me as if it should be obvious. "I play."

"Right." I muttered, "Of course."

But Sherlock saw that there was more behind the reason I had asked. I could see him debating internally about whether he should ask me or not. I suppose he decided against it, as he never said anything else.

For a few moments, I fought back the urge to scream. Never in my life had I felt so utterly _frustrated_. The room was weighed down by all the things we weren't saying, suffocating the normally relaxed atmosphere and making me feel the need to run down the stairs and out onto the street, sucking fresh air into my lungs with a ferocity that would scare most people (myself included).

Looking at him now, I was reminded of just how foreign we both were to each other. Neither one of us knew anything, really, about the other. I knew only the things I had read on John's blog and Sherlock's and that wasn't much. John had been purposefully vague about select details, as he was writing for public eyes and not just my own and Sherlock was completely mum on the subject of his life. His _private_ life, I should say.

His voice cut through my thought process and diverted my attention back to him. "What time is it?"

"Nearly two, I think." I murmured. "Last I checked, it was."

Sherlock fell silent again, but instead of ignoring me completely, his eyes settled on my face and I could see what he was trying to do.

"Stop."

He raised an eyebrow. "I never said a word."

"It's not what you're saying." I clarified moodily. "Because, frankly, you hardly say anything to me. It's what you're _doing_. Deducing me, or whatever. Just… _don't_ do that with me, okay? If you want to know something, then ask. Don't make me into one of your cases."

When I looked back up at him, I could almost see the gears in his head turning, but not like they were before. He wasn't trying to read me. He was trying to _understand _me. Before he could ask me anything, I jumped in the conversation again.

"And speaking of cases, why don't you have any?" My voice was gentle, as I was trying to keep him from shutting down on me yet _again_. "I've been here for nearly a week and you haven't said a word about work. Your inbox is bursting, I know that much. Your phone goes off every five minutes, at least. So why aren't you taking them?"

Sherlock avoided my gaze expertly, drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair in a way that would make any other person think he was dreadfully bored. But I knew better. I didn't know what he was thinking, or feeling, but I knew that he was once again trying to deter me from asking him questions. He was trying to exasperate me to the point that I would give up.

I didn't.

"_Sherlock_."

"John isn't here." Sherlock said suddenly. "And he should be."

And that was it. The answer for everything that was wrong with the world, our worlds, at least.

John wasn't there, and he should have been.

And suddenly everything felt _wrong_. Eyes closed. Throat thickened. Absolutely couldn't swallow. Heart raced. Body felt weak. Mind short circuited. Pulse pounded in my ears. Pushed away from the chair. Stumbled to the door. Baritone voice called after me. Couldn't answer. Knees wobbled. Nearly fell. Caught. Vision swam. Sick.

_John. _

"_Mrs. Hudson_!" Sherlock bellowed down the stairs, promptly startling me enough to bring me back to the land of the living. I noticed that I was back in the red armchair, though I had no idea how I'd gotten there. And then came the sound of Mrs. Hudson rushing up the stairs, saying things like 'Oh, dear' and 'Oh, my,' in her frazzled and motherly way.

"Goodness, Sherlock, dear. Must you always shout?"

"Pot of tea." Was all he said, and then before she could protest; "_Thank_ you."

I, meanwhile, was focused solely on breathing in and out. Sherlock stood off to the side, watching me as if I was a ticking time bomb on the verge of exploding.

"Does that happen often?" He asked eventually.

"What?" I questioned breathlessly, turning to look at him.

"You. Having panic attacks."

A panic attack. I racked my brain, trying to remember if I'd ever had one before… but that would have been an experience that would have been unforgettable if it _had_ happened. I would have recognized it.

"That was my first."

Just like that, our conversation was over. Mrs. Hudson returned with tea, which I sipped halfheartedly before I muttered some excuse about being completely knackered and slipped away to my room. I cut the light out without caring. My eyes adjusted to the dark. The covers settled over my body. The sound of Sherlock's violin reached my ears, quieter than before. And I, _finally_, began to do something that I hadn't allowed myself to do in a very long time.

I cried.

* * *

Saturday arrived unbeknownst to me. When my eyes finally opened, the sun was streaming in my window at full strength, making me think that it had to be late morning or, heaven forbid, almost noon. I had slept half the day away.

Cursing internally, I hauled my aching body out of bed and stumbled into the bathroom to brush my teeth. I didn't hear the violin, or _anything_ for that matter, and assumed that Sherlock wasn't home. So, I went about my morning as I always would have living alone. I retrieved my phone, took it into the bathroom, and started one of my many playlists before cutting on the shower.

By the time I was done shampooing my hair and was halfway through singing _I Wanna Dance With Somebody_ at the very top of my lungs, I started to feel uneasy. But, I pushed the feeling aside and finished my shower.

As soon as I hopped out and wrapped a towel around myself, I cranked my music down. And that's when I heard _people_. My heart started to thud against my ribs in a way that made me think that it was audible to the entire world. I pulled open the bathroom door the _tiniest_ bit and poked my head out into the hall.

"Hello?"

My voice was barely above a whisper. I felt like I had suddenly stepped into a mediocre horror film, calling to the killer as if he was going to be in the kitchen making himself a sandwich. Biting my lip, I stepped out into the hall and tiptoed down until I could see into the living room. What I saw wasn't comforting in the least. Police officers were crawling all over the place, opening drawers, going through the books and taking things off the shelves. I didn't know what in the world they were looking for, but the sight of their openly invasive search into Sherlock's things angered me to no end.

"What the _hell_ is going on?"

Several of them turned to look at me and I realized that I was still only in a towel. _Great_. An officer with peppered gray hair and a quite startled look on his face made his way over to me. And since he was also the only one in a suit, I presumed that he was in charge.

"I'm Detective Inspector Lestrade," He said, introducing himself. "I have a search warrant-"

"For _what_?" I demanded, ignoring the fact that my hair was dripping all over the floor. "This is ridiculous!"

Sherlock had suddenly appeared by the front door and was doing nothing to stop Lestrade or any of his coworkers from digging through his things.

"Drugs bust." Lestrade clarified and then turned to Sherlock. "So, what do you have this time, huh? Where is it?"

I scoffed. "Seriously? This guy? A _junkie_?"

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Katherine…"

Seconds ticked by. The longer I stared at him, the more uncomfortable he seemed. And then it hit me. Out of all the things that I thought Sherlock Holmes might end up being…

"_No_."

"_Well_…"

"_Sherlock_!" I shouted, much too loudly. I wanted to say so many other things, but that was just about all I could manage. I knew that if I said another word, it would start something that I wouldn't be able to filter. So, I pressed my lips together and waited.

Lestrade side-stepped me and started to walk down the hallway to what appeared to be _my_ room. I followed him automatically, but not before I shot Sherlock the most withering glare I could manage, conveying perfectly that we would most certainly be discussing this later.

"Can I ask you why you're going through _my_ things?" I hissed at Lestrade as he began shifting through my bureau. There wasn't very much there, but there were certain items of clothing that I was a thousand times too uncomfortable to have seen by anyone, let alone Lestrade. So, there I was, feeling more and more violated by the second. Not much bothered me where _anything_ was concerned, but I did place great value on my privacy. And privacy seemed to have no meaning here.

"Just doing my job."

I soon gave up and grabbed some of my clothes before marching back into the bathroom. When I was decent, I emerged and made up my mind that I would _not_ yell at Sherlock (no matter how tempting a prospect it might be). I took a deep breath and walked into the living room, finding that Sherlock was lying resignedly on the couch with his arm slung over his eyes in a way that made me think he was either trying to block everything out, or seem disinterested and therefore innocent enough that the DI would give up and send everyone home.

As for the possibility of there actually being drugs _in _the flat… I didn't know what I thought about that. If they found any, I guessed that I would figure it out quickly enough. But I still couldn't imagine Sherlock being a junkie. Eccentric, yes, that much I knew. But a _junkie_? I simply couldn't wrap my head around it. John had never said anything of the sort to me, or to anyone that I knew of. And I wondered suddenly if Sherlock would have ever confessed it to me if Lestrade hadn't shown up and started tossing things about.

A sigh escaped my lips and I found myself walking toward the sofa. After another few seconds of silent debate, I tapped Sherlock's shoes. "Make room."

Sherlock peered at me warily before bending his knees to allow me enough space to sit down beside him. Who would have guessed someone this arrogant could have been so mistrustful. Looking into those eyes of his, I realized that as much as I wanted to (right now, anyway) I couldn't stay angry with him. The fact that Lestrade had shown up wasn't his fault… to a certain extent, at least.

"No shouting, then?" He mumbled, avoiding eye contact until I'd sunk down on the couch beside him.

What struck me as almost funny was that Sherlock had such an overwhelmingly commanding presence that seemed to make nothing more of a situation that he himself thought of it, no matter who might be in the room with him, but when he was out of his element (like now, for example), his demeanor turned him into something similar to a scolded and coltishly awkward man who barely knew how to control his own limbs. He reminded me very much of an overgrown toddler.

"Of course not." I said earnestly. "Not that this doesn't piss me off… but no. You weren't expecting this…" My gaze cut over to his narrowed eyes, "Were you?"

"No."

"Okay, then."

We didn't speak for a long time after that. I sat, trying to pretend I didn't notice the way Sherlock watched me, and he went on letting me. After what seemed like forever, Lestrade left with all of his cohorts (empty-handed, I might add), and still we sat there. Eventually, I peeked back over at him.

"You're alright?"

He nodded quietly and I took that as my cue to leave. Sherlock was alright now. There was no reason I couldn't leave him to his thoughts. So I assumed, anyway. (NOTE: Stop making assumptions.)

"Katherine." Sherlock stopped me just as I was entering the hallway.

I took hold of the door frame with one hand, leaning out far enough into the living room that we were in one another's line of sight. "Yes?" I'm sure I looked foolish, but if he thought so, he never said.

Sherlock extended his index finger and pointed towards the floor. "You've dripped all over the flat."

I scoffed under my breath and pulled myself back into the hallway. He was always _almost _charming, right until the very end. But I could never claim to be bored, not with him around. Sherlock was an enigma and one that I was becoming eager to solve. But I found that I was confused by the extent of his eccentricity and wondered how he'd become the man that was lying on the couch several doors down. Perhaps he loved mysteries so much that he became one.

And that, to me, was the most accurate description of Sherlock that I had come up with thus far. In the process of deciphering all of his various cases and keeping a professional and ever watchful eye on the world around him, _everything_ had become one large puzzle. Including the solver himself.

The longer I dwelled on the subject, the more I came to see just how little I knew about Sherlock Holmes. Whether that thrilled or terrified me, I couldn't tell you. There are some things in this world of ours that are worth waiting for, worth worrying over, and worth every taste of hell in the moments in between the beginning and the end. But, _this_, I was uncertain that it was worth all of the in-between.

The thing you have to know about me is that I never do anything without knowing what will come next. I've said before that I was predictable to the people around me, but I know now that subconsciously, I chose to be that way. And I feared that in this regard, I had made a severe misstep by allowing myself to take this kind of a risk on a whim.

Risk taking? It's just a transfer of our incredibly juvenile tendencies to 'test the waters,' and can be translated most simply into "DON'T DO THE THING!"

And I had done the thing.

For the last several days, I had started to regret this on a level that I hadn't known existed. And I thought that I'd sunk as low as one possibly could. Boy, was I wrong. And I was sure that I would continue to be wrong.

And wrong or right, I knew that one thing was for certain.

There was no backing out now.

* * *

**_"I wanted a perfect ending. Now I've learned, the hard way, that some poems don't rhyme, and some stories don't have a clear beginning, middle, and end. Life is about not knowing, having to change, taking the moment and making the best of it, without knowing what's going to happen next._**  
_**Delicious Ambiguity." - Gilda Radner**_


	7. Chapter 7

_**First of all, I want to apologize to all of you for the extremely long wait. I've had to fight depression for the past week or so and just had no motivation whatsoever to do anything. But, I wanted to thank Lady Gisborne 15 for being the one to help me out of my funk and just being so encouraging and helping me through a really tough time. She's my best friend here on FanFiction and I think of her as part of my family. She's the best, you guys. I just wanted to let everyone be witness to the effects of her awesomeness. I don't know what I'd do without her!**_

_**Also, to those of you who have favorited/reviewed/followed since I've been away, THANK YOU! I came back to a lot of love and I am so grateful to all of you. You guys deserve the world. **_

_**-lightinside**_

* * *

_**{Chapter 7 Mini-list}**_

_**Vienna - Billy Joel**_

_**When the Light Dies Out - Christel Alsos**_

_**Long Way Down - Tom Odell**_

* * *

It was another _semi_-normal day on Baker Street. Sherlock had quite adamantly refused to go out to the shop, as he was "busy", and I'd been left to go alone. Now, as I stumbled up the staircase with my bags, I could sense that something wasn't right.

But before I really begin to tell you much of anything, let me go back a little. Last week, I had come home after a long day at the clinic to find _fresh_ specimens lying about on the coffee table and had called Sherlock, demanding with a very shrill voice, one that I reserved only for when I was as irritated as I possibly could be, to know why they were there. When he'd answered me by saying that they were for an 'experiment', I'd given in.

I realized that I would much rather him experiment in the kitchen than where we both relaxed. The kitchen wasn't used very much anyway. Sherlock claimed he had no use for it, and I was far too wary of all of the health code violations that I'm sure had been committed within that small space to even consider making our meals in there.

Sherlock had happily moved all of his science equipment back into the kitchen, and I've been miserable ever since. Sometimes, I come home to a horrible, stomach-turning stench, or a bloody specimen that was thawing on the counter just waiting to be dissected. I simply never knew what I was going to find when I walked through the door. I had tried to occupy myself to the point that I was almost _never_ in the flat unless it was after dark, as he would either be out himself or be playing his violin. It had become easier to tune out the incessant playing of the instrument the more accustomed to it I became.

But today, this couldn't be helped.

As soon as I walked into the flat, the smell of sulfuric acid assaulted my senses. Wondering what in the world Sherlock could be doing now, I put down the shopping with a groan of revulsion.

"Sherlock?"

The curly-haired detective poked his head out from the kitchen. "You're home early."

"And you're…" I could hardly force myself to breathe, "What _are _you doing?"

"Testing the effects of sulfuric acid on organic materials." He said. "Eggshell. Rooto Drain Opener." Sherlock held up a large bottle that had the same proportions as a bleach container. "Elementary."

"Then _why_ are you doing it?"

"Boredom."

I fought down the urge to throw something, albeit soft, at Sherlock's head and decided that I would take the groceries down to Mrs. Hudson to store, just to be safe.

"Please, do something about the smell." I begged as I picked the bags back up.

Sherlock sniffed the air discreetly before turning to look at me. "What smell?"

I didn't answer. I knew that if I did, I wouldn't be able to hold my tongue. I trudged down the stairs, grocery bags in hand, and knocked on Mrs. Hudson's door.

When it opened, her eyes roved over me in an attempt to give my mood a quick, but thorough examination and I could immediately feel the pity rolling off of her in invisible waves.

"Katherine, dear." She murmured, glancing at the stairs. "Is he being intolerable?"

"Not exactly." I answered with a heavy sigh. "I left so that I wouldn't be."

I dropped off the shopping with Mrs. Hudson and looked back at the stairs, feeling suddenly as if I was walking towards my execution should I climb them. Things between Sherlock and I hadn't been smooth lately. The flat had become a resting place for every uncertain thing in my world; what I would find when I returned home, what Sherlock would be doing, what his mood would be like.

And that was another thing I'd noticed lately. Sherlock had terrible mood swings. He went from not talking, to being irritable about every infinitely small detail of just about _anything_.

'The couch had shifted.'

'I'd moved his sheet music.'

'I'd tidied the living room and now he couldn't find *insert object here*.'

Anything he could find to pick at me about, he did.

It was like a massive storm cloud had moved in and rooted itself in his head, making everything about him angry and dark. I'd realized what it was when I had gone to John's blog, searching for answers. John called it a 'black mood'. A little bit of everything dark poured into one whirlwind of an emotion that he could never quite explain.

I couldn't explain it either. It wasn't any fault of mine – I was kind, tolerant, erm, toler_able_, and I did anything I could to make his life easier. The only days I couldn't help him were the ones spent at the clinic, which he had on more than one occasion brought to a complete halt by texting and claiming that there was an emergency, making me drop everything and rush back to the flat only to find him debating over something trivial that did _not_ need my immediate attention.

And there I was, hauling myself up the stairs ever so slowly, delaying the inevitable. When I reached the top, who knew what I was going to find.

But when I stood in the threshold, I didn't even have it in me to be surprised.

There was Sherlock, two Febreze dispensers in his hands, spraying the scent around the flat with a look of concentration that I only saw on the faces of officers handling guns with the utmost care. Though I tried not to, I cracked a small smile. The sight was comical.

But when I _crossed_ the threshold, my smile disappeared. My hand flew to my face, covering my mouth and nose as I sputtered on the thickness of the air.

"My _GOD!_" I shouted. "What is _that_?"

Sherlock stopped spraying and checked the bottles. "Mediterranean Lavender," He pointed towards the windowsill where two candles were now lit. "And Tahitian Sunrise."

I couldn't open my mouth, for fear of smothering, to tell him that Sulfuric Acid, Mediterranean Lavender, and Tahitian Sunrise did not, in _any_ way, merge well together. It smelled like someone had dipped Skittles in highly acidic alcohol and set them on fire.

"Get your coat." I said, rushing to open the windows in the vain hope that the flat would air out before we'd returned. "We're going out."

"_Why_?"

I wasn't even going to start on all of the reasons why he should, excluding the fact that he was acting like a child and that we both needed a break from it. So, I simply sighed and pointed toward the door, where the coat rack stood close by.

"Just get your coat."

Sherlock huffed and moved towards the coat rack, yanking his long coat down and pushing his arms through the sleeves with resentment. I was too tired for it to irritate me. Or maybe the excess of Febreze was dulling my senses. I hardly knew anymore.

When we were out on the street, the cold air hit me all at once, seeping through my heavy coat and chilling me to the bone. I had planned on walking around for a while, but Sherlock had a bad habit of stepping out in front of cabs and I was too frazzled to even think about worrying after him the entire time we were gone.

Speaking of…

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

"Grab us a cab, will you?" I asked him softly, knowing he was much more likely to get one than I was. He was practically the Cab Whisperer. "I'm freezing."

Without another word, Sherlock stepped up to the curb and hailed a cab immediately. (How _did_ he do that?) And we climbed inside together, each of us going to our designated sides. Over the past few weeks, I noticed that Sherlock was slowly becoming more comfortable around me. Perhaps that was to blame for all of his childish behavior, but even so, it made me feel a little more relaxed and less like an unwanted plague.

"Where are we going?" Sherlock asked as I shut my door.

I shrugged. "Doesn't matter."

Sherlock's eyebrows arched out of curiosity. I'm sure that he was wondering why I had insisted we go out if I had no clue what it was that I wanted to do. But, that wasn't who I was. I never planned anything. I tried not to, at least.

Planning stressed me _out_. Knowing I had to be somewhere at this time or that, it did something to my blood pressure that I knew most likely wasn't healthy. So, I tried to wing it. Other than work, I made most of my plans fairly random.

I decided to let Sherlock take us where he would, as long as we weren't going back to the flat.

I didn't know how much of a mistake I was making.

* * *

We wound up at Bart's Hospital, in the basement of the facility, standing around the mortuary while we waited on a woman named Molly Hooper to come and meet us. I'd never heard of her before, but it seemed that she knew Sherlock very well. The second he'd called her, it seemed that she'd dropped everything and had jumped in the first cab that had presented itself.

I didn't know what in the _hell_ Sherlock wanted in the mortuary, but whatever it was, I was sure that it wouldn't shock me. However, it was not the way I wanted to spend my evening and it was _not_ at all what I had guessed would happen by giving Sherlock the reigns in choosing where we went. I suppose you could say that I was a little pissed. More uncomfortable than pissed, but all the same…

"This is not what I meant," I muttered, crossing my arms against the creepy chill of the too sterile room. "When I said that it 'didn't matter'."

"You conveyed to me that you did not care where we wound up." Sherlock said, matter-of-factly, (once again making me fight the urge to strangle him), "I may surpass the level of your intellect, Katherine, but I am not a mind reader."

Indignation burned inside of my chest, simmering like a low and deadly flame. I began to glare at the man in front of me and found that I was not too tired to be angry with him.

"Are you calling me dim?" I hissed grumpily, arms crossed across my chest. "You didn't even know how to use the damned _toaster _before I moved in with you!"

He waved me off. "I had no use for it."

"Sherlock, having no use for something and not knowing which button made the bread sink into the machine is significantly different."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, huffing like a six year old, but didn't say another word.

"And for that matter, I know I'm not as smart as you as far as _deductions_ go. But, face it, you're completely screwed over in regards as to how normal people go about their lives. Just because I'm _relatively_ normal, does _not_ mean that I am in any way stupid."

"Normal?" Sherlock's eyes flicked to my face and stayed there, a hint of amusement dancing in the kaleidoscope irises. "What gave you the indication that you were normal?"

I pursed my lips, making it clear that I was less than amused. "Shut up. I said 'relatively'."

"'Relatively' is a very _loose_ term, don't you think?"

"_Sherlock_." I warned. "I'm done talking to you."

A low hum escaped the back of his throat, the one that was judgmental at the same time it was ridiculing, before he turned away from me to fiddle with what I assumed was Molly's lab equipment to keep his hands busy.

My hand was itching to give my forehead a good smack. Sherlock brought out the worst in me, the least rational and most infantile behavior that I had ever exhibited in my life, and I couldn't _stand _it. I could go from perfectly respectable to an unglued, raving lunatic in 0.5 seconds when he was around.

All I could do now, because I was most _certainly_ not going to own up to any of what had just transpired, was sit and pray that Molly would be there before things got unbearably awkward.

And that could take a very long time.

* * *

When we arrived home that evening, I was ready to crawl in bed and never come out again. I didn't even feel like teasing Sherlock about Molly's infatuation with him. I doubted he saw just how in love with him she really was, but he knew it enough to be able to manipulate her at the bat of an eyelash.

I had watched that afternoon as Molly scrambled around the lab, fetching Sherlock various items of equipment that he could have easily gotten up and retrieved himself. And I felt exceedingly terrible for her when she'd asked him if he wanted to have a coffee and he'd responded with 'black, two sugars, thanks.' And all the poor girl could do was blink and say 'okay.'

Never had I seen anything so abysmally _sad_ in my entire life.

Sherlock jogged up the stairs, leaving me at the bottom to silently grumble about my life while I climbed up to the flat, having already decided that even though I'd brought home the shopping today, I would be ordering out. If I ate anything at all. Sherlock could fend for himself… maybe…

With a sigh, I tossed my bag in the corner of the living room, thankful that the fumes were now almost completely gone, and trudged to my room.

Sherlock's curly head popped around the corner and peered into the hall, "Where are you going?"

"Bed."

"What about dinner?" Sherlock called after me.

"Order something." I said as I pushed open my door. "Whatever you want. I'm not hungry."

It was true. The closer I'd become to collapsing down on the soft comforter and pillows that lay on my bed, I had no desire to eat a morsel. I closed the door behind me and speedily changed into my pajamas before crawling into bed with a relieved sigh.

My eyes closed, but sleep had abandoned me. I lay there in the dark, eyes once again open but unseeing in the nothingness that surrounded me, wondering why exactly I was putting myself through all of this.

My dad had attempted to talk me out of it, moving in with Sherlock. But he _had _been wrong. Sherlock wasn't a loon, not at all. Though the longer I stayed with him, the more I did question his sporadic and strange thought processes. The young man had a morbid curiosity for the abnormality and the viciousness that held humanity trapped in its talons.

I had never once wondered what motivations a psychopath held for murdering or torturing innocent people (as I went by the popular belief that they did so because they were just crazy) but Sherlock did, and he went beyond that in the way that he could seemingly pluck clues and scenarios out of thin air by what he called the 'science of deduction'. I would have just called it bullshit if I hadn't seen him do it to other people.

And even though my mind was completely preoccupied, I started to feel a familiar panic start to rise in my chest. My thoughts released Sherlock and moved on to other things. The dark was too much. I had to cut on the light. Light, light, light.

I bolted up into a sitting position and cut on the light that sat on my bedside table, trying to keep myself from hyperventilating. As soon as the shadows disappeared, I could breathe again. That was happening a lot now; too much. I couldn't sleep. The darkness suffocated me. I knew what was waiting. I knew that my demons, everything that haunted me, lurked around every corner, daring me to close my eyes so that they could wake me screaming.

I lay here night after night, thinking about all of the things I'd done; the good, the questionable and the blatantly wrong.

It ate me alive, whatever that emotion was. I could never pinpoint it exactly. Maybe I'd spent so long shutting everything out that I snapped, like a dam that's holding too much water. And finally it breaks and the water flows and drowns out everything beautiful and pure and makes what's left a dirty, muggy, hideous mess that reminds us all of what we've become if we think about it long enough.

Imperfections everywhere, turning everything black and hopeless.

My thoughts were turning into short, intermittent bursts that made me know that I was on the periphery of a panic attack. It was all too familiar. Thinking about _possibly_ having a panic attack was actually making me have a panic attack. I squeezed my eyes shut and pulled my knees to my chest, focusing on the dancing orange flicker that I could make out beyond my eyelids. If the light was on, I would be okay. Everything would be fine.

I turned my focus back to Sherlock, hoping that the thought of him would calm me down just enough to be able to breathe.

Earlier, when we'd been talking in Bart's, I'd called myself relatively normal. Of course, he'd poked at me for that. But I couldn't help but think that maybe he was right, about me not being even kind of normal. I didn't know what I was anymore, let alone _who_. I had spent my entire life pretending not to know the girl that stared back at me when I looked into a mirror, trying to please everyone else, and now she really was a stranger.

When John entered into the Army for the first time and had gone away, followed by Harry who left for school, I had been so ashamed of myself.

Actually, let me clarify.

I had allowed myself to be shamed as well as simultaneously shaming _myself_ for wanting to leave. For wanting something more than looking after my two frazzled parents whose thoughts were related only to my brothers, the one who went to war and the one who just ran away.

And I kept being ashamed of myself all of those years, simply for _wanting_.

Here I was, twelve years later, still wondering what was real and what wasn't. Still unable to distinguish what was expected of me from what I wanted. I had wasted so much time trying to make the two merge that I had confused myself beyond measure.

Now, I found myself wondering when I had become this person… and who this person even was. And I've heard that nothing will ruin your twenties more than thinking you should have everything figured out, but that wasn't the point.

I didn't want to figure it all out. I wanted to know which direction I should head in order to begin _my _life. I wanted to know if I was living the way I wanted to, or the way everyone else thought I should.

In that way at least, I thought that I had done the thing that had been of the greatest benefit. I had moved in with Sherlock. And even thought I was still questioning why, that didn't mean that I would take it back. Not a second of it.

And I began to realize that even though I was comfortable with my decision, I was still _hiding _it. Each time I called my parents, I pacified them by making it seem like they had been right the entire time and that I was on the cusp of finding a new flat to live in.

Maybe I was… some small part of me, at least.

Because the longer I knew Sherlock, the more I both hated and admired him. He didn't hide from the world. He was himself and he was never ashamed of it. I admired him for that; for not caring what the world thought. And I hated him because I _did_ care.

I hated him because when he stood tall, I wanted to run scared. And when I wanted to run, I would look at him and something would take root in me and make me stay.

Seeing Sherlock, being surrounded by John's things, being compared to Sherlock's memory of my brother, it all reminded me constantly of my pain, but somehow Sherlock had gotten into my head.

Like a poison, he had infected me and now I was steadily abandoning all rationality. Spreading my arms and waiting for the fall. Taking the deep breath before the plunge.

Any sane person, upon discovering that they were no longer in control of their own emotions, would have left long ago. A smart person would pack their bags right then and there and leave before they could think twice.

But, seeing as how I had discovered since meeting Sherlock that I was not as smart as I had once thought and that I had _never_ by any definition been sane, I knew that I would stay.

He could yell. He could pout and put bullet holes in the wall and leave organs on the table, eyeballs in jars, and heads in the freezer; what did it matter? What did it really _matter_?

Sherlock wasn't going to change. He was happy in his own skin and though I envied him that, who was I to try and take that away from him?

And above all, I was slowly beginning to realize that I didn't _care_ about any of that. I wanted to follow him, wherever he went. It was slowly going beyond worry and developing into something else. Even though we'd been at each other's throats for almost two weeks, I knew that when it passed and everything was okay, that _I_ would be okay, too.

But sometimes, I felt like it was too late. I was already a stranger to myself. Sometimes, I felt like screaming. Other times, I wanted to sob and soak my pillowcases with my tears until they sloshed like sponges that had absorbed more than they could bear to hold. Because I was that sponge. I was too full. Everything was spilling over.

The more time I spent with Sherlock, the more I knew that my secrets wouldn't stay secret for long. I was dying to tell him everything. Every time we sat in silence, I ached horribly, clenching my jaw and balling my hands into fists trying to keep the words from leaping out of my mouth and clawing the peaceful atmosphere into shreds.

I hurt. Sometimes, I looked at him and it _hurt_. I wanted to say so many things… I wanted to tell him that I understood. That when he was supposed to be sleeping, I heard him crying instead. That I cried, too. That I wanted to break everything in sight when it was all just too much.

But he wouldn't be able to understand that _I _understood.

Sherlock was pacified by the company of his own loneliness.

Once, I had been the same way. And though I knew what it felt like to want to claw your way out of your own skin and escape into silence, away from all of insensitivity and all of the people that claimed to care, I was tired of it. Finally, I was beginning to understand that it didn't _have _to be that way.

I belonged here, with Sherlock, I knew that. But I was having a hard time figuring out the rest. Lines were being blurred; images going out of focus and fading like someone had scuffed a chalk drawing of my life with their boot.

My life was one massive contradiction; the pieces never quite fitting unless I forced them to and, as a result, making an unappealing mass of nothings with jagged edges, threatening to harm anyone who got too close.

The walls I had built were eroding and ruining me from the inside out. But I knew that when the storm passed and the sun came out, he would be waiting for me.

That was all I wanted.


	8. Chapter 8

_**Hi guys! I'm back! I wanted to update before things got too crazy, as I'm going home for a visit next week and don't know if I'll have much time to write or post. I'm not too happy with this chapter, but I hope you guys like it just the same. Shout-out to Lady Gisborne 15 just because she's my bestie and you guys should adore her. Okay? Okay. **_

_**Thank you to those of you that still find this story and myself worthy enough to follow! I love you all! **_

_**Enjoy!**_

_**-lightinside**_

* * *

_**{Chapter 8 Mini-List}**_

_**Conspiracy - Paramore**_

_**I Am Not Gone - Jonathan Clay**_

_**Flaws - Bastille **_

* * *

The next morning, in a zombie-like haze that had been induced by a lack of sleep, I sat on the couch nursing a cup of coffee. Sherlock was already working away at his makeshift lab in the kitchen, mumbling things to himself here and there that were either nearly incoherent or made no sense.

I wondered silently if Dana was still in town. It had been weeks with no word from her since the morning we'd had dined and dashed at Blandford's. I didn't know how she was or if Jon was okay or if she was ever going to keep her promise to bring me several strong alcoholic beverages of my choice.

She had a way of doing that. Keeping in touch and then dropping off of the face of the Earth. I tried not to think very much of it, as she was just that kind of person. Here one day, gone the next, only to show up months later with a new guy and a killer tan. That was one of the reasons Mrs. Kendall worried about her so much. And it was also the cause of Jon's many publicity stunts that were too often close calls. Dana's mother worried so much about her that she forgot about Jon. It had always been that way, and I had always been sorry.

"Are you going to sit there all morning or are you going to be a productive member of society?" Sherlock called to me, hardly glancing up from his papers.

"Depends. Are _you_?"

I saw his mouth flatten into a grim, unappreciative line. "I _am_ being productive."

"Really? And what are you doing?"

Sherlock mumbled something under his breath, making it clear to me that he wasn't being productive at all and that he knew it with utmost certainty.

"That's what I thought." I called back to him, taking a loud sip of my coffee.

The couch held me captive for another solid half hour before I finally was able to haul myself to my feet and march into the kitchen to put my mug into the sink. My eyes landed on Sherlock's lean form, hunched over another massive stack of paperwork, concentrating on the fine print like his life depended on it.

"What's that?" I asked him, squinting as I tried to make out some of the words.

"Nothing." He snapped. "Go… do your hair or something."

"You're being especially rude this morning." I chirped, happy to be making him squirm. "Something happen?"

Sherlock finally looked up at me, eyes narrowed. "Why are you asking?"

I rolled my eyes at his obvious suspicion and pushed myself away from the counter. "I'm going to shower. And then I have some errands to run, but if you want to go with me, you're welcome."

Sherlock stood up, "Aren't you working today?"

"I'm taking the day off." My voice was softer then, hoping that he wouldn't ask me any more questions as to why I wasn't going into work. "So, are you going with me or not?"

After a few more seconds, he nodded and then turned his attention back to whatever it was that he was working on. A grateful sigh escaped my parted lips and I turned my back on him, walking quickly to my room towards the end of the hallway. When I walked through my door, thinking that I was safe from any more unwanted inquisitions, my phone began to vibrate from where it sat, discarded, on my bed.

It was 9 a.m. Who could want me this early in the morning? Unless something was wrong. Was something wrong? Was someone hurt? _Jesus_, my parents. Were they okay?

My legs pitched my body forward in a less than graceful dive as I grabbed for my cell, yanking it to my ear with a breathless; "Hello?"

"Katherine?" My mother's shrill and angry voice asked from the other end of the line. "Are you busy?" Something rustled in the receiver and I then heard; "DON'T TELL _ME_ WHAT I NEED, JAMES WATSON! YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT'S BEST FOR ME!"

Cringing, I leaned away from the phone. _Shit_. This wasn't good at all. I had thought that my parents might be working through their differences, as I hadn't heard another word from my dad on the subject of their divorce, but this was certainly proving me wrong.

"Eh… Mum?" I asked gently, still leaning away from the receiver.

"Katherine, I'll _kill_ him." She growled, "I swear, I will."

"And you called me to stage an intervention?"

"No! I called because I've packed a suitcase and I'm coming over to your flat."

My vision started to swim. "_Now_?" I gasped, "Like, right _now_?"

"YES!" She shouted harshly, "Right _now_!"

"Okay, okay!" I was trying to pacify her in the midst of my panic. My first and only thought that was running through my mind was; _how in the world am I going to hide Sherlock_? "I'll see you when you get here."

She hung up without saying another word and I was immediately in action. I skidded across the wood floors in my socked feet, muttering 'shit' under my breath more times than I'm sure is acceptable in any situation. I made it to the kitchen, still not showered, and now on the verge of changing my name, growing a beard, and opening a curry shop in some obscure part of a third world country to escape my mother, who I was sure was going to be in the mood to plot my father's murder in very detailed scenarios after she broke into my liquor cabinet.

I didn't bother to ask Sherlock if I could move his things. I just did.

"Might I ask you what you think you're doing?" He demanded as I whizzed around the kitchen like a Tasmanian Devil.

"You have to get rid of this." I explained without pausing as I shoved a stack of his manuscripts in the cabinet, "All of this. Right now."

"_Why_?"

"My mother is coming."

Sherlock scowled and made a distasteful noise. "_Mothers_." He said. "I've never liked them. Too…"

"Maternal." I finished for him. "And unless you want her to walk in here and whip out her rubber gloves and a super-sized bottle of Mr. Clean and force feed you home cooked meals on actual china, then I suggest you get a move on."

That did it. Sherlock started cleaning immediately, as I supposed he would rather put things away himself and be able to find them than risk my mother throwing 98% of it out into the rubbish bin.

Ten minutes later, the kitchen was almost respectable and I ordered Sherlock to move on to the living room so that I could at least wash my hair before my mum showed up on the stoop. When he stopped glaring at me resentfully and hurried away, I dashed for the bathroom, knocking over a large stack of books that leaned against the wall in the hall and in the process stubbing all of the toes on my right foot in a way that made me think I had broken at least two of them.

"_SON OF A-" _A groan tore its way from my mouth, "_Nugget._" I finished with a whimper.

"Katherine?" Sherlock dropped what he was doing and jogged into the hall, "Are you hurt?"

"_Brilliant_ deduction, Holmes." I growled, chewing on the inside of my lip to keep from releasing another string of creative curses. "Can you please help me up? She'll be here any second."

Sherlock bent over and put his hands on my waist before he hoisted me upright with no problem at all, much to my surprise. He was a lot stronger than he looked. My mind started to wander to images of a very young, acne ridden Sherlock in high-school, lifting weights in the gym to be better prepared for the naïve ignoramuses that made fun of him for being so different.

I snapped out of it with a muttered thank you to hide my potential smile and set off to wash my hair.

Nothing about this day was going to go the way I wanted. Sherlock was not going to be polite and he was not going to be social. My mother was not going to put a filter on her creatively abusive speech and she wasn't going to stop herself from sticking a straw in a bottle of wine and drinking until it was gone.

Every time I calmed down, the slightest noise from the living room made my heart pound thinking that it could be her, knocking on the front door or dragging her suitcase up the stairs.

Her _suitcase_.

Oh, _God_.

How long was she staying? I couldn't just kick her out! Not that I didn't want to… but still. You didn't do that, not to family. _I _didn't, at least. (Though at this moment, I wished that I would let my standards slide and call my mum back to tell her that I was somewhere far away… like Finland. Finland would have been good… Or that I had the measles… or was bitten by a disease infested rabbit…)

The extent of my excuses was endless and slightly overwhelming.

I grabbed a towel and dried off before dressing in blue jeans and a blouse, to make her at least think that I had a life and didn't spend my days moping in my pajamas, and dried my hair until it was only slightly damp. My thoughts were still elsewhere as I walked back into the living room where Sherlock sat in his chair, reading a book in the now nearly tidy space.

"Sherlock?" I asked, crossing my arms thoughtfully, "What would you think if I told you I was bitten by a disease infested rabbit?"

He raised a skeptical eyebrow and lowered his book. "Is this about your mum?"

"…Maybe."

Sherlock scoffed and raised his book again, rolling his eyes. "Pathetic."

I shook my head in defeat, sinking down onto the couch. "And I am so _acutely_ aware of it."

It was then that I heard THE KNOCK. Hearing _a _knock is different. You smile and think, 'thank God, someone loves me enough to drop in for a visit.' It's about the same feeling when you get a letter in the post from someone you haven't seen in eons. But hearing THE KNOCK solicits a feeling in me that I imagine the more unfortunate people get when they are about to be hit by an oncoming bus.

The sound of Mrs. Hudson's overly chipper greetings reached my ears followed by the sound of my mother hauling her baggage up the stairs impatiently, and I had one last thought about leaping from the window and shimmying down the drainage pipe before slinking away into the night like a very suave Bruce Wayne.

The only problems being that I would most likely shatter every bone in my body by trying to be creative in my escape since I was about as graceful as a newborn fawn; I would never in any lifetime be able to be even remotely compared to Batman, and it was approximately ten hours away from being dark.

But a girl can dream.

The sight of my mother's slight frame crossing my threshold was the beginning of a very long and very real nightmare from which I could not awaken, but I stood and smiled and acted like her coming was welcomed.

Though that was over the moment she asked me; "Do you have anything to drink?"

I knew she wasn't asking for water or soda or something acceptable to have in public before the hours of five p.m. onward.

"Not right now." I murmured. "I'll take you out for one later."

But I knew that I would certainly _not_ and I hoped that she would just forget about it. I had several hours to make that vain hope a reality.

She shot me a less than encouraging glare and turned to Sherlock. "Caroline Watson, Katherine's mother."

Now, there were several ways that this could have gone; several scenarios that presented themselves silently the moment my mother's eyes landed on Sherlock's lanky form. The first being that Sherlock could have stood, smiled brightly, shook her hand, and introduced himself before launching into all of the things that she should appreciate about her only daughter. Since I knew without a doubt that there was no way in _hell_ that would happen, I moved on to scenario number two, in which Sherlock nodded and introduced himself, hiding his oddness with skill, before escaping discreetly down the stairs to catch a cab and stay scarce until nightfall. Of course, I knew that I would never be that lucky. And that left scenario number three, which was the most horrifying and the most realistic.

Sherlock glanced up at her, gave her a distasteful sneer, and turned back to his book without saying a single word.

Before things could get blown completely out of proportion, I grabbed my mother by the arm and steered her toward my bedroom, muttering apologies and impractical excuses for Sherlock's behavior.

"Honestly, Katherine." She scoffed. "You really think I care about _Sherlock Holmes_ after the day I've had? I would rather be ignored for the rest of my life than..."

That was around the time I tuned her out. I had to, in order to prevent myself from foolishly opening my mouth and spilling out all of the tumultuous thoughts that scratched at my mind like the sound of a broken record.

The supposed 'day she'd had' was no doubt a product of her very poor treatment of my father, who was only ever kind to her. And her claim that she would rather be ignored was a contradiction in itself, as she was sitting there exaggerating every infinitesimal detail to the extreme, trying to get me to feel sorry for her.

But the fact remained that I didn't feel sorry for her. Not at all. And I was wishing instead for a very deep and calming silence to come along… or that she would come down with laryngitis and be unable to speak for the duration of her stay. Either way, I would have been happy.

"Er, Mum?" I interrupted her without meaning to, but I was grateful that I had. I didn't want to listen to her talk about how shitty my father was for another moment. Other than the fact that it was a _total _falsehood, I knew that this was my golden opportunity to grab Sherlock and 'go to work.' "I really have to get going. My secretary has already called me twice to see where I am. You'll be okay, right?"

"Yes." She sighed heavily, rubbing her eye with the back of her hand. "Just fine."

"Okay." I replied. "See you later."

"Bye, darling."

The sound of her calling me 'darling' made me want to punch a hole in my bedroom wall. But, considering that Sherlock had already put the flat through so much abuse, I decided that I wouldn't and instead resolved to make my escape.

I found myself back in the living room, where Sherlock was still reading the same damned book. I could see clearly that he hadn't moved a solitary inch since I'd brought my mother in the flat. But I didn't have time to be irritated.

"Come on." I said softly, hoping my mother wouldn't hear. "We're leaving."

His eyes flicked up to mine, "Why?"

"Stop asking so many questions," I snapped, even though he'd really only asked one. "Just get up and get your coat so that we can go."

"_Fine_." Sherlock huffed with an exaggerated roll of his eyes before he rose from his chair and crossed the room in five long strides, passing me in the process.

"God, you're such a child." I groaned under my breath.

Sherlock didn't hear me. He slipped into his coat and turned to me, lips pressed together in a way that said, 'I'm ready, why aren't you?' After which he crossed his arms, silently telling me to hurry up.

I was absolutely in no mood to deal with any of this, as I'm sure you gathered earlier. Whether it was my desire to fling myself from a window (creatively, mind you), or the wish that my mother would contract laryngitis, I'm positive that a total stranger would have been able to see plainly the depth of my dismay.

I ushered him out of the door ahead of me and nearly fell down the stairs because of my own foolish (but simultaneously well-placed) feeling that I was suddenly seventeen again, sneaking out in the middle of the night after curfew and on the verge of being discovered. If my mother knew that I was dodging her, she would be furious. All the more reason to put a pep in my step, I supposed.

"Why are you doing this?" Sherlock asked when we were safely down the street, "Why are you _running_?"

"Your mum. Tell me, Sherlock, what was she like?"

"I don't see what-"

"Just… humor me."

He sighed, but turned thoughtful before he answered me again. "Warm. She was always cooking and smiling and scolding me for not making friends and making sure that we had our homework done…"

"_We_?"

"Yes." Sherlock glanced at me curiously. "Mycroft, my brother – I did tell you I had a brother, didn't I?"

"No."

"Hmm." He mused. "Getting back to my mum, she worked entirely too much. She would lock herself away in her office and type at her computer for hours – she was a mathematician, my mum. Wrote a book. So, I didn't see much of her then. And that's all I remember." Sherlock looked over at me again, "Your turn."

"Your mum wrote. Mine drank. And that's really… all there is to it. That's all I can say. She drank."

Sherlock looked like he wanted to say something for a minute or two. And then, the silence settled in and became solid. This was becoming a regular occurrence. When one of us would say something entirely too personal, the other would hesitate on the threshold of discussing it and would then back down, leaving a relieving but heavy silence hanging over us both.

I didn't know how I felt about it.

Most of the time, I was happy not saying a word about anything important. I could chat about laundry or the preservatives in Sherlock's favorite jam all I wanted without feeling like I'd exposed any of myself in the process. But there were some times, like this one, that I felt like I _needed_ to let him know me. I needed him to see what I'd been through, what I'd _survived_. I needed a witness to my life, like everyone else in the world, just to make it through to tomorrow.

If your life goes unwitnessed, you begin to question your importance. You wondered if anyone would care that you didn't like crusts on your peanut butter sandwiches or that you prefer tea to coffee. You wondered if you were good enough. You thought that maybe, if you tried just a little more, then they would finally see you. That they would love you.

And I was just starting to realize that it wasn't that way. You don't have to try harder. You just had to be yourself, because there was someone that cared about everything that you did. You were alreadyimportant. You were good enough for them, in fact, you were better than 'enough', you were _everything_. They saw you. And they loved you.

Whether that person was my father, or Dana, or even _Sherlock_, I didn't know yet. Maybe it was all of them. Maybe it was everyone I knew, including my mother.

And it was hard to tell on some days if everything would turn out right, but there were moments that I just _knew_. I knew that things would be fine, just like Sherlock knew that I hated crusts on my sandwiches. He knew that I liked coffee in the morning and tea in the evening. And even though those were tiny things, some of the smallest details that make up part of a person, I think I knew that somewhere deep down, he cared.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

"You're my friend. You know that, right?"

I watched him linger in the threshold that separated silence from speech for a few moments, seemingly shocked. And I waited for him to say something. Anything. To hum in agreement or nod his head or glance at me in a way that said the conversation was over. But he didn't.

He never answered.


	9. Chapter 9

_**I am so sorry about the wait! I went home for a visit, talked, laughed, and didn't write a word for over a week. I know it's been forever. And I'll try to make it up to you guys for me being such a crappy schedule keeper. I hope you all enjoy chapter 9! And thank you guys for all of the reviews and follows that I came back to! That was the best thing for me to see. **_

_**In answer to a question I received from Witty Lady; Katherine looks more like her mother than her father, but she acts just like James in that she is compassionate and quiet (most of the time) and also like her mother in that she is very opinionated. The best of both, I suppose. And thank you for all of your wonderful reviews! **_

_**Also, I would really like to thank Lady Gisborne 15 for reminding me that I needed to update ASAP, because I was apparently making her anxious (Sorry, Ariana!), and I hope that I haven't lost much of your interest. I swear, I'll try to set and keep a schedule for updates from now on. Again, I'm so, so sorry.**_

_**Enjoy chapter 9! I hope to hear what some of you think of it in the reviews! **_

_**-lightinside**_

* * *

**{Chapter 9 Mini-List}**

**Round Here - Counting Crows**

**All the Same - Sick Puppies**

**Too Close for Comfort - McFly**

* * *

November had come and gone and my mother had still not taken my many not-so-subtle hints to pack her bags and go. As time went on, she had grown exceedingly comfortable embarrassing me in front of Sherlock and scolding both of us for the 'mess' that had been left around the entire flat before cleaning it herself.

I couldn't find over half of my things, which was beginning to frustrate me more and more, and Sherlock had taken to sulking in his room until she left before he would emerge, pestering me about the time of her departure. He wanted her gone just as much as I did.

"What am I supposed to do about it?" I asked him finally, setting down the book I had been reading so that I could look at him. "Tell her that I can't stand her being here another minute and send her on her way? She's in the middle of a _divorce_, Sherlock. And even though I'm on my father's side, that doesn't mean I can treat her badly."

Sherlock didn't say anything for several minutes, so I began to think that he was finished with me. But then, I saw something shift.

"You're a grown woman, Katherine. You have the right to say when you've had enough."

"And _you_ are a grown man." I retorted snippily, "It's time to start acting like it."

Sherlock frowned, "That was unnecessary."

"Well…" I groped for something to say that would justify my level of irritation toward him, but came up with nothing. Finally, I sighed and mumbled an apology. I didn't mean to be so hateful to him, but lately, it seemed that kindness had completely abandoned me and left in its place 'Scrooge' Katherine.

I didn't like being 'Scrooge' Katherine, but at the same time, with circumstances as they were, I didn't know how to _stop_. Christmas was fast approaching, and Christmas, to me, meant family members that you didn't remember, judgmental parents, too much food, greedy cousins, and more bickering over the stock market than I cared to listen to. I couldn't _stand _Christmas dinners anymore. With John, it had been tolerable. We would shoot each other little looks of sympathy here and there when one of us would be snagged by a long lost uncle or aunt, roll our eyes when our parents argued over the size of the tree, and overall pity each other throughout the entire evening before celebrating our survival with drinks afterward.

But John wasn't here. And that would be another thing I would have to deal with. More sympathy from people who hardly knew him. Thanksgiving had been its own kind of hell, but this… well, somehow it seemed worse.

I didn't know who would show up, only that I had somehow gotten myself into the position of hosting the dinner in my flat _with_ Sherlock. Somewhere in the sea of guilt and selfish insanity, my mother had gotten to me. She was in the middle of a divorce, she was all alone, she couldn't stand to see me so lost, blah, blah, _blah_.

More subjects I didn't care to discuss. So, I had appeased her and given in to her halfhearted bullying. And now, I was in deep shit.

"Sorry." I said finally, struggling to let go of my depressing thoughts. "I know I've been awful. That I'm currently in the process of _being_ awful. But if you can just bear with me until the day after Christmas, I swear, everything will be back to normal."

Sherlock snorted in mid-laugh, "Nothing around here is normal, Katherine."

"Whatever. It'll be back to being perfectly _ab_normal."

"Just the way I like it." He said, smiling slyly at me. And I knew what he was doing. Trying to make me feel better. Even though I was determined to wallow in my dark and endless pit of self-pity, he did the impossible despite everything else. He made me smile back.

"Anyway." I said, standing from my chair. "You know, I'm probably worrying for nothing. Christmas at the clinic is always a blessing. Idiots drunk off their asses trying to string up lights or carve a ham. I'll be busy all night. Might even get to skip dinner."

"Oh, no you _won't_." Sherlock insisted snippily, "I'm not staying here _alone_ with _your_ crumbling family while you stitch up drunks and fuss over snot-nosed little children."

"What am I supposed to do, Sherlock? Take the night off?"

"_Yes_." And the way he said it made me think that there was no room for an argument. "Or cancel it altogether."

"I can't cancel!" I was nearly shouting in my panic, making myself sound like a whining seven year old. "The dinner is in _four_ days, Sherlock. Everyone is coming here."

"Then you have your answer." Sherlock looked so smug for a few moments that I had to clench my fists at my sides to keep from taking a swing at his face in the hope that I could make that look disappear. "There are plenty of other clinics in London, clinics that _need_ the business. You've done incredibly well for yourself over the past few months. You can afford to take one night off."

"I might take that as a compliment if you weren't manipulating me."

Sherlock scoffed half-heartedly, "You only wish you _could_. I don't give compliments."

"And you think I haven't noticed?"

He muttered something about my horrible observational skills before picking up his violin to drown me out. I didn't mind, though. I was more than happy to allow him to ignore me. My mother would be back soon and I would take the opportunity to leave Sherlock here with her and do some shopping. It was… the _least _I could do.

His sass deserved some retaliation on my part.

"Sherlock?"

His violin playing quieted enough for me to continue on with my statement, but he didn't respond verbally. All he did was shoot me a look that said 'hurry before you lose my interest'.

"I'm giving you your Christmas present early."

He stopped playing. "Oh?"

"Mmmhmm."

Something about the cheerfulness in my tone must have given me away, for his eyes narrowed and he slowly began to put down his violin. "_Katherine_?"

I couldn't keep myself from grinning like the Cheshire Cat and I slowly began inching toward the door.

"It will be here in five… four… three… two…"

My mother's footsteps sounded on the stairs, heading for our flat. Sherlock's eyes widened and he leapt out of his chair with surprising speed for someone who was generally so lax.

"Katherine!"

Tongue in my cheek, trying to keep from laughing, I gave him a small wave. "Have fun with my mum, Sherlock. And try to smile."

As I left, I heard my mum begin to fuss over Sherlock, so excited over seeing him that one would think he was her own son. Laughing to myself, I made my way down to the curb, imagining Sherlock cursing me quietly the entire time.

This was a good day.

* * *

Christmas morning was quiet, much quieter than I had expected. I woke up slowly, inhaling the scent of coffee and peppermints mixed with the heavy and wonderful scent of the medium-sized pine tree standing tall in the living room, weighed down by ornaments and tinsel. I could hear 'Jingle Bells Rock' playing in the kitchen and, to my surprise, it wasn't my mother that was singing along with it.

It was Sherlock.

I peeked around the corner with an amused grin plastered to my face, a grin so wide that it would draw unwanted attention from my mother if she were in the room to see it. When the song was over and Sherlock was quiet, I sneaked back down the hallway before walking _back_ to the living room, almost stomping, to let him know that I was awake.

No matter what, I didn't want to embarrass him. And his singing obviously wasn't meant for my ears.

"Good morning." He greeted me coolly, hardly meeting my gaze.

"Morning! Happy Christmas." My voice was still infused with too much happiness to be acceptable for this early in the morning (Sherlock knew me too well), so I played it off as being an effect of the holiday. But I realized suddenly that he also knew that I looked forward to Christmas as one would look forward to Earth Day… meaning that I didn't.

Sherlock began eyeing me suspiciously. "Don't you think it's a bit too early to pop open the port?"

A groan escaped my lips, "_Jesus_, Sherlock, I'm not tipsy. I'm just… happy."

"Whatever you say, Katherine."

My good mood evaporated with his insinuations and I plopped sulkily into a dining room chair, glancing around disdainfully at the clean kitchen. I knew what a clean kitchen meant, at least in _this_ flat. It meant company. Lots and lots of company. My mother must have already been out and about gathering _more _supplies for tonight's dinner, though I would be the one cooking and hosting.

Cooking.

The thought made me ill. The last time I had attempted to cook for this many people, I'd burned two casseroles and left a cake in the oven so long that it set off the fire alarm and brought the fire department knocking on my door. I'm sure by now you're gathering that I'm not a good multi-tasker. And you're right.

"Sherlock, where's my mum?"

"Out. Left this morning."

Just as I'd thought.

"So…" I stood from the table and brushed my hair out of my eyes with a sigh. "Did you invite anyone to dinner? Do I need to set up more chairs?"

Sherlock shrugged, "Just a few."

"A _few_?"

"Molly Hooper, Gavin, Mrs. Hudson is coming up, your friend Dana called, and…" He huffed, "I'm forgetting someone… there were two more…"

"Wait, who is Gavin?"

"Lestrade." Sherlock clarified, as if it should be obvious.

"_Greg_."

His eyebrows knitted together, "_Who_?"

"Lestrade, Sherlock. Greg Lestrade."

"Oh, what does it _matter_?" Sherlock rolled his eyes and just like that, it was over. He kept muttering to himself, trying to figure out who he'd forgotten to tell me about.

I started puttering around the kitchen, pulling out ingredients for dinner and desert and setting them out as neatly as possible to avoid a ridiculous confrontation with my mother. Thinking of her made me think of my father…

"Sherlock, is there any chance my father phoned? He told me he might have plans, so I didn't –"

"That's it!" Sherlock cried suddenly. "James and Harry both phoned to confirm."

"My brother is coming?" I couldn't help but feel stunned. The last time I'd heard from Harry, it had been at John's funeral. We had parted badly and I hadn't expected him to come to see me at all. Of course I had invited him… but even so, I had never dared hope for a response.

"Yes. And that's all, I believe. Unless you invited someone?"

"Sarah Sawyer." I remembered suddenly. "And that makes… nine of us."

"Ten."

"But you said-"

"A text." Sherlock said, holding up his phone. "Mycroft insists upon coming. Everything is always last minute. Always has to keep us on our toes to keep up the pretense of being the _agent_." It was then that he glanced skyward, as if he was more than thoroughly annoyed by just the memory of it. "You can imagine the Christmases."

I fought back a smile, as I now knew that _something_ could get under Sherlock's skin. The thought of it being his family was just so commonplace that it struck me as funny. Sherlock Holmes was in no way an ordinary man. Not to me. "Ten it is, then."

"What about the rest of your family? The cousins and aunts…"

"Tomorrow." I murmured, "I'm having this _soiree_ tonight and then tomorrow I have a family dinner at my parent's flat."

Sherlock's eyebrows raised, but he didn't say a word. But I knew what he was thinking. Thinking that my parents were divorcing and that their throwing a party for the family, just to put up the pretense that everything was dandy was the most ridiculous thing he'd heard all year.

I didn't look forward to any of this at all, but at least tonight, I would be surrounded by my friends… and my grieving and irritated parents in mid-divorce. I fought the immediate urge to take flight and stay scarce until after Valentine's Day and put my nervous energy toward taking a shower instead. Once that was out of the way, I put on one of my nicest dresses reserved for special occasions (a royal blue, strapless, floor-length number with which I could hide the fact I wasn't wearing heels) and pinned my hair up. This was probably a very reckless and thoughtless decision, considering I still had some baking to do. But I could put on an apron and be done with it.

The sooner this was over, the happier I would be.

The day was fleeting and I soon found myself staring at the better half of five o'clock, my mother still not back from wherever she was. I hoped that she was alright… and that she wouldn't show up impossibly intoxicated. If she knew my father was coming, who knew what she might do. And if she didn't, she was in for a big surprise.

I was placing fresh cookies on a platter to set in the living room when I heard a loud groan from down the hall.

"Katherine!" Sherlock yelled from his room, "_KATHERINE_!"

I dropped what I was doing and dashed in the direction of his room, heart pounding. It sounded like he was distressed over something, or had hurt himself. Sometimes I wondered how he _didn't_ with how clumsy he always was. More careless than clumsy, but the two intermingled to the point of not being able to discern which was which. I burst through his door, " What!? What is… it…?" I saw him standing in front of his mirror, holding up a red tie.

"Do I have to wear this?"

My mouth fell open. "_What_?"

"This tie. I hate ties. I never wear them. Do I have to wear one?"

"You yelled for me to ask me about a tie." I murmured incredulously.

"Yes. And you still haven't answered my question." He said sulkily, like this tie was the absolute last straw that would push him over the edge. I knew how he felt, but…

"Look," My arms crossed automatically, as they almost always did when I was miffed about something, "What have I said about yelling for me?"

"Never to do it unless I'm unconscious, bleeding, or dying." Sherlock repeated quickly, rolling his eyes. "Which makes no sense, as I couldn't yell if I was unconscious and if I was dying… there would be no point."

"Exactly." I said, "And you aren't any of those things. You're asking me about a _tie_, which you could have easily done by walking into the kitchen instead of screeching for me like I'm your maid."

Sherlock's lips pursed in a way that made me think he was restraining himself from proving me wrong. "Tie." He said again finally. "Yes or no?"

"No." It wasn't that I was a fan of people not wearing ties to nice events, like this dinner party, and the tie itself wasn't that bad, but the thought of Sherlock in a tie was just appalling. Loose, scarf-wearing, casual Sherlock in a tie. I couldn't do it.

Sherlock tossed it over his shoulder into the floor with a grateful sigh. For a moment, my eyes lingered on the crumpled tie in the floor and I wondered if he would ever bother to pick it back up or if it would spend its days gathering dust before finally being forgotten. If I was being honest, I would probably vote for the latter.

"You have to hurry." I ushered him as I inched toward his door, "Mrs. Hudson is coming up with a casserole in a few minutes, and Molly phoned to tell me that she wanted to help me finish setting up."

"Fine." He murmured, but I could tell he wasn't really listening.

Instead of teasing him, I found it odd for some reason. "Are you alright?"

"Perfect." He said. "Just… fine."

I don't know why I didn't push him to tell me more. I suppose I found myself skirting around discussing personal issues myself, like he always did with me. But I knew that I couldn't be the only one in distress. Sherlock's brother was coming. Instead of being happy, he seemed somewhat out of sorts. I wondered to myself what Mycroft was like, how they were around each other. If he looked like Sherlock. If he was as… _superior_. Since Sherlock was indeed the younger brother, my guess was that he had learned his behavior _from_ Mycroft. So that meant that he was most definitely superior. And probably very sassy.

So I just let it go. "Okay," I said softly. "I'm going to go finish up in the kitchen. Check the rest of the cookies. Wait on Mrs. Hudson."

For a few seconds, he seemed a little surprised. Headstrong Katherine backing down and leaving him alone instead of prodding. I hoped the concept wasn't _too_ shocking. If it was, then I certainly needed to adjust my behavior. If I didn't, I would end up just like my mother. When she was in a particularly good mood, I got to hear her tale of woe, being a mother that had an unmarried and otherwise unattached daughter. No grandchildren from either of her boys, but God bless them. Me, on the other hand, I was like a disease. She sneered and 'tsked' and turned toward the heavens to ask why in the world I wasn't more like her when she had been my age.

Guilt was my mother's main specialty. And I had a feeling that, coupled with the finger sandwiches I'd asked her to bring back with her, she would be serving it up on a platter.

"Okay." Sherlock said, interrupting my thoughts. "I'll be out in a minute."

"Right." My head bobbed up and down in an unintentional and awkward nod, just to have something to do. "Okay."

I was just turning to leave when I heard a small noise escape his mouth, followed by my name. Curious, I turned back around.

"What?" I asked.

"Um…" His eyes looked me up and down… and then up and down… and again. His mouth opened and closed a few times. "Have you… always had that dress?"

I looked down, having forgotten that I was wearing it instead of my usual casual style that he always saw me in. "I bought it a year or two ago on a whim. Thought I would have use for it someday." Discomfort washed through me, mingling with a sudden sense of insecurity. "Why? Should I wear something else? It's bad, isn't it? Is it the color? Or the length? It's the length. That's what it is. It's too formal."

"No." Sherlock managed forcefully. "No… you look… nice. You look very nice."

I found myself clearing my throat to take the attention away from the blush that was creeping its way into my cheeks, much to my own surprise. "Thanks." After a few more seconds of silence and his discreet ogling, I pointed toward the hall. "I should… I'm going to…"

"Yes." He agreed with me quickly, "Right."

"Okay."

My hand shot up in a quick wave and I walked quickly from his room, shutting the door behind me. Instead of making my way to the kitchen, I dashed for the bathroom, locking the door before leaning against it, wondering what in the world had just happened. I knew that if I didn't go into the kitchen soon, then people would start arriving and I would lose the courage to face them the longer I stayed.

I would lose the courage to face _him_.

God.

What the _hell_ was happening?

Did I like him? Was that it? Was I actually beginning to find myself attracted to his… assness? (If that wasn't a word, it is now.) I couldn't be, though. I _couldn't_. And that was all there was to it. I _refused_ to fall for Sherlock Holmes. He was callous and arrogant and impossibly infuriating and… thoughtful and kind (on occasion), and…

No. No. No. No. No. No. _NO_!

No way.

In my revelations, I found a new purpose. I would focus all my energy in undoing the damage that I had already allowed my emotions to do to my rationality, in that I would absolutely, _completely_, fall out of like with Sherlock.

I had to. Or there was no knowing what lay in store for either of us.


	10. Chapter 10

_**First of all, I just wanted to thank all of you for being so amazing! I've gotten so many wonderful reviews and equally wonderful followers over the past month. Specific thanks go out to: Lady Gisborne 15, Witty Lady, AmeliaRoseOswald, and Little-Annie for their reviews on the last chapter! You guys have no idea how thrilled I was to read your thoughts about my story. It always makes my day. **_

_**I know I post irregularly, and I want to thank you for putting up with that! This chapter is a little shorter than usual, I hope you'll forgive that. I just wanted to post before I got busy and left you with nothing for two more weeks. So... here's chapter 10! **_

_**-lightinside**_

* * *

The next night, after what turned out to be a surprisingly successful dinner party with my friends and Sherlock's brother (whom I still wasn't sure I liked, but might be growing on me), I began to mentally prepare myself for what lay ahead the moment I left the flat to go to my _family_ oriented dinner.

Deciding to dress it down was a smart decision, I thought. I could wear my red turtleneck and nice jeans if my hair and makeup were right. I had always been able to get away with little things like that… though once my mother saw me in comparison to last night's dinner, she would most likely be displeased.

Giving myself a once over in the mirror, I sighed heavily. But, really I looked fine. She would get over it.

As I was retrieving my jacket from my small closet, a knock sounded on my bedroom door. "Katherine?" The door opened without my saying a word and Sherlock peered in, "Are you decent?"

"It was always my understanding that you were supposed to ask that question _before_ you walk into someone's room." I quipped dryly, pulling my hair out from its trap in between my shirt and coat. "Actually, now that I'm thinking of it, I believe that you're supposed to _wait_ for _permission_ before you even _enter_ someone's room. Which are both things that you failed to do just then."

Sherlock huffed an aggravated sigh and withdrew his head from the small space between the cracked door and the door frame, pulling the door shut with him. A loud knock came then, "Katherine?" His voice was completely deadpan, "Are you decent?"

"Why, yes, Sherlock, I am." I called, actually fairly amused. I had been doing my best as of late to teach him _some_ manners. He always burst into rooms at the worst of times. There had been several occasions over the past few weeks where he would stroll into the bathroom while I was in mid-shower to ask me a question over something inconsequential, to which I would answer by reminding him that I was, in fact, naked behind the curtain. His face would go blank, he would blink, say 'Right', and walk out of the room without closing the door.

And even now, it was like he hardly gave the possibility my indecency a thought until _after_ he'd invaded my privacy.

"_May I come in_?"

"You may."

The door opened and I was met with his unamused stare. "Happy?"

I couldn't help it. I grinned. "Very. Now, did you have something to ask me?"

"More of something to _tell_." Sherlock clarified, strolling over to my bed and plopping down without hesitation. "I was thinking that I might go with you tonight."

"Go… to the dinner?" My eyebrows knitted together tightly on my forehead and I'm sure I must have been staring at him as if he'd sprouted a third eye because he suddenly looked uncomfortable.

"Yes. I know it's a…" He cleared his throat. "A family affair, but I…"

"You…?"

"Hate to think of you going alone." He managed flatly. "But only because you came to my rescue numerous times while Mycroft was here. This is simply… necessary."

"_Necessary_?"

"I don't want to owe you anything."

Flying so high only to crash and burn.

"Your sentiment is absolutely _touching_, Sherlock, really." I said dryly. "But, you _don't_ owe me anything. That's what friends do for each other."

Sherlock tensed visibly and I had to swallow my irritation. I hated that I couldn't call him my friend without him acting as though I'd made him ingest cyanide. And I also might have been irritated at myself some, too. I was in the process of falling out of like with him. I think that my voicing the status of our relationship (our non-existent relationship) was more to remind me than anyone else of where the line had to be drawn.

God, it all sounded so much like a western. Lines drawn in the sand. Brims pulled down low. Spurs clinking. Eyes shifting back and forth. Hands itching toward their guns. Dramatic zooming and ominous music. Only the rivals in _this_ story were my subconscious and my level-headedness. And either way, one of them was going to end up dead.

"Good to know." Sherlock managed after an eternity of thick silence. "If that's the case then-"

"I still would like your company."

_BANG_! Moment of silence for my level-headedness. Victory lap for my subconscious.

He seemed a little thrown because of my sudden eagerness for him to accompany me instead of just being thoroughly confused, but instead of firmly disagreeing with me, he nodded, brown curls bobbing. "Let me grab my coat."

"Okay."

I was the picture of ease… right until the door closed behind him. My hand smacked my forehead lightly and I had to fight the urge to shout abuse at myself. So, I settled for a good dose of pacing and the incessant muttering of the word, "Stupid." Two or three minutes later, I took a deep breath, promised myself that if I made it through this night that the rest of my life would be a piece of cake, and exited my bedroom.

Sherlock and I left the flat together, both of us extremely preoccupied to the point that we tried to squeeze out of the front door at the same time. The moment my arm connected with his, I yanked myself away (acting very calm in front of him, but cursing the existence of physical contact on the inside), and allowed him to go first so that he could hail a cab.

In the few seconds I had while his back was turned to me, I tried to take several deep and cleansing breaths that I had hoped might help, but didn't. The realization that I was attracted to Sherlock on some small level wasn't helping me _get_ over it. It was _taking_ over. The more determined I was to stop liking him, the more I thought about it. And the more I thought about it, the deeper my grave was being dug.

And when he turned back to look at me, those otherworldly eyes so clueless but still so thrilling, I knew for certain that I would not make it through this evening alive.

* * *

The moon was shining its brilliant white light over the dim streets of London as Sherlock and I arrived at my parent's flat. As I rang the doorbell, I found myself praying that Sherlock would behave himself tonight. And seeing as how he had volunteered to come with me, it seemed that he was well aware of the consequences should he not, or he would have stayed home and allowed me to go alone. This relieved me a little, settling some of the restless butterflies that beat against my stomach.

"How long are we staying?" Sherlock murmured as we waited for someone to answer the door.

I glanced over my shoulder and shot him a look. "You can go if you want."

"_No_." He insisted, sounding as though he thought me an idiot for even suggesting it. "It was just a question."

After a few seconds, I shrugged. "Hopefully not long… unless my Aunt Sylvia is coming. And that means…" The butterflies came back with a vengeance. "Sherlock, I think I should probably warn you."

Sherlock had the good sense to look a little worried as he waited for me to continue.

"Look, my mum's sister Sylvia has a daughter, my cousin Rachel, who just got engaged this November. And that means that my mum is going to try and use me to compete with her. Your being here with me just sort of… sets the stage for-"

"I've got it!" A voice called from beyond the door. Before I had time to finish my warning, the door was wrenched open and I found myself staring at my father. "KW!" He cried happily (even if the happiness was a little forced), "You made it."

I put on my brightest smile and stepped inside, shrugging out of my coat as I did so. "Of course I did." My arms wound around his neck in a tight hug, and I pressed my lips close to his ear. "_What _is going on?"

"Sylvia is here." He murmured back, and then pulled away to escape the notice of any of my other relatives. That was about the time he saw Sherlock. The emotions on his face danced between shock, hesitation, and apprehension for a few seconds before he stuck out a stiff hand. "I'm James, Katherine's father."

_Ohhhh boy, here it comes._

"Sherlock Holmes." Sherlock replied cordially, shaking my father's hand.

I don't think either of them noticed my heavy sigh of relief. Sherlock had introduced himself, unlike the first time he'd met my mother, whom he had dutifully ignored.

"Glad to meet you."

"And you as well, sir."

Before I had time to faint from shock, my mother came speeding out of the living room like a bat out of hell.

"Sherlock!" She cried, "Darling! I'm so glad you made it. Katherine said you might be working tonight."

Sherlock shot me a confused glance, but shook his head. "No. I… er… took the night off."

In the back of my mind, I imagined Darth Vader's theme beginning to play. I had said no such thing, which meant that my fears of rivalry between my mother and Sylvia were quickly becoming a reality. And that meant that –

"Caroline?" Sylvia called from the living room, "Is Katherine here?"

"Yes! And she's brought her boyfriend."

Oh. My. God. This was not happening to me. This was _not _happening to me.

Sherlock stiffened by my side and I could feel his eyes staring daggers at me, though I hadn't the courage to look and see for myself. I took hold of my mother's small arm and pulled her to the side of the entry hall, heart hammering painfully against my ribs.

"_Mother_!" I hissed softly as I heard Sylvia begin to get off the couch. "What are you _doing_?"

"Just for tonight, dear." She promised. "Now, smile for your Aunt."

My aunt Sylvia rounded the corner with a huge (and entirely falsified) grin that stretched her already thin lips into near nonexistence. "Katherine!" She wrapped her arms around me, pinning mine at my sides.

"Aunt Sylvia!" I returned, hiding my dismay with skill. "It's so good to see you." Subject change… subject change, _I need a subject change!_ "How's Rachel? I heard she was engaged recently."

Storm clouds could have been gathering over my mum's head and it would have been less obvious than the look of pure, unfiltered irritation she sent my way. I ignored her and led my aunt back into the living room, followed closely by my mum, noticing on the way that my father had kept Sherlock in the entry-way. I hoped that it was to explain all of this insanity and not to threaten him with death by pistol should he make any kind of advances toward me whatsoever.

"Yes, she _was_." Sylvia's voice brought me back to the present, nearly startling me as she droned on and on about my cousin Rachel, whom I hadn't seen in at least four years, and her fiancée George who apparently worked as a lawyer in Sussex and – (I'll stop there to save you a substantial amount of agonizing boredom).

"And what about you, dear?" My aunt's eyes shifted between me and Sherlock, who had come in around the time she was debating over Rachel's wedding dates. "Are the two of you thinking about marrying?"

Sherlock pressed his lips together, obviously exercising impressive restraint to save me embarrassment, and I found myself searching for the right answer. My mother would be furious to have my relationship in question tossed aside and traded for the truth, and I would be furious with myself if I allowed her to use me this way any longer than I already had. Considering her current living situation, in and out of our flat, I decided that it would be better to handle my own anger than to suffer through hers on a daily basis.

"We haven't talked about it yet." There. It wasn't a total lie. We _hadn't_ talked about it and we would _never_ talk about it because Sherlock was not interested in me, and I was not interested in him… (Still working on that.) "But I'm very happy for Rachel."

"Yes. Now, if only Kyle would propose to Breanna, then both of my children would be happy…" Kyle, Rachel's brother, was the 'Me' of my aunt's children. He had only recently started dating his current girlfriend Breanna Hyatt and was already being pushed into marriage. At least he was doing better than I was, appeasing his mum a little at a time. I didn't even _have_ a boyfriend, and I had as good as picked out my wedding dress and was on the verge of walking down the aisle.

"Speaking of Kyle… where's Harry, Caroline?" Sylvia began to look around the room. "I haven't seen him in ages. Not since..."

I started to fiddle with my phone, frantically searching for my standard ringtone before I laid my phone down beside me, pressing the button just as I took my hand away. It interrupted my aunt's question, and gave me the golden opportunity to make my escape. Acting as though I was shocked that anyone would be calling, I snatched up my phone and 'answered' it.

"Hello?"

Silence.

"Mrs. Hudson!? Are you alright?"

More silence.

"Of course. Sherlock and I will be right there."

I 'hung up' and shoved my phone back in my pocket before standing quickly from my seat between my mother and my aunt.

"That was our landlady." I made sure to make my tone sound as urgent as possible, shooting Sherlock a discreet look to haul ass and retrieve our coats from the rack by the door, which he understood immediately. "She took a bad fall. Sherlock and I need to run her to Bart's."

"Oh, no!" Sylvia pouted much too childishly for it to suit her age. "But you'll miss the rest of the family."

"They got here early, Sylvia." My father interjected. "You saw them. And now they need to go." He stood from his chair and glanced at Sherlock standing in the doorway, holding my coat. "C'mon. I'll walk you to the door."

"Thanks."

We walked quickly to the door, me calling out my goodbyes on the way at the same time I shoved my arms in my coat in a desperate attempt to speed up time and be home in the blink of an eye. When the front door closed behind us and my dad was sure that no one could hear us inside, he shook his head.

"I'm sorry, you two. I should have warned you."

"It's not your fault." I insisted halfheartedly. "I just… can't stay. I can't face the inquisition. I mean, if I can't make it past Sylvia, then what will happen when everybody else shows up?"

"I understand." After a few beats, he looked over at Sherlock who had been observing both of us quietly for the past two minutes. "You'll get her home safely?"

Sherlock nodded. "Of course."

Even though it was frigid outside, I found myself wanting to buy a little more time with my father so that we could talk, just the two of us. So, I asked Sherlock to get us a cab and I stayed on the stoop.

"Okay. Spill."

My dad was still looking after Sherlock. "Spill what?"

"Why are you testing him?" I asked. "I saw the way you were watching him when mum and Sylvia were talking about weddings and _me_ and then just now, with the safety thing. What are you _doing_?"

"Observing." He answered coolly. "Just like he does. It's amazing, you know? How clueless you both are."

Both? What did he mean, _both_?

"I'm not clueless."

That seemed to startle him substantially. "You like him?"

"Only a little, but – God, dad, that doesn't even matter. My liking him is like Pluto. It's tiny and now, it's like… really distant and cold and I-"

"You're babbling, Katherine." He said. "It's your tell."

It was then that I heard the opening of a car door. When I looked over my shoulder, I saw Sherlock standing by the cab, waiting for me, trying to be a gentleman. I turned back to look at my father, who was beginning to smile.

"We are _never_ talking about this." I insisted quietly. "_Ever_."

"Okay." He conceded. "This is me. Not talking about it."

"_Dad_."

"Alright," My father chuckled softly before pulling me into a hug. "Be safe, KW."

"Will do."

"I love you."

"I love you, too Dad." I said as I began to descend the steps. "I'll see you soon."

With one last look at my father, his tall frame outlined by the sudden and soft sprinkling of rain amidst all of the cold, I took a deep breath and climbed inside the cab wondering all the while what Sherlock would have to say to me once he climbed in, too.

I supposed I would find out soon enough.


	11. Chapter 11

_**First of all, I want to thank Littlebirdd, PrincessxXxDarkness, MKW, Lady Gisborne 15, Fuchsia. Grasshopper, NicBarnes, and Sah for their reviews! You guys, seriously, you made my month. Knowing how much you enjoy the story just makes it so much more worth writing. It's an absolutely phenomenal feeling, reading all of your opinions. I just... wow. Thank you. **_

_**And thank you Lady Gisborne 15 for all of your proofreading help! You've really helped me smooth out the rough edges on this chapter and I appreciate it SO MUCH! **_

_**{Warning for the songs: if language offends you, then 'Shakespeare' is to be considered before listening to it. It only has one curse word, but still. Just letting you guys know. If any of you happen to listen to my mini-lists.}**_

_**Anyway, I hope you all like chapter 11 and I look forward to reading your reviews!**_

_**-lightinside**_

* * *

**{Chapter 11 Mini-List}**

**About Today - The National**

**Shakespeare - Fink **

**Bulletproof Weeks - Matt Nathanson**

* * *

When we got back to the flat later that evening after spending what seemed like an eternity riding home in a very heavy, implicative silence, I still wasn't sure what to say to Sherlock to try and make up for my family and their blatant disregard for what normal people called 'manners'. And my _mum_, dear _God_, my mum. I was absolutely humiliated by her conduct and had no idea where to _start_ apologizing for that.

Sherlock, upon reaching the living room, tossed his coat and scarf toward the rack and hardly noticed when they fell to the floor. He was completely lost in thought, which made me slightly apprehensive, as in normal circumstances, he would have at least said _something_ by now. Was he angry with me?

The thought that Sherlock could be upset prompted me to give him an awkward and somewhat lame apology. "I'm so sorry. I had no idea… well, I did. I suspected. But, it wasn't definite, so…" I was babbling, I realized. Shit. I took a deep breath and decided to start over. "I'm sorry."

"Doesn't matter."

"Oh." I couldn't hide my confusion. If he wasn't upset with _me_, then what in the world was he upset about? He was brooding so there must have been something… oh. "Sherlock, tell me something."

"What?"

"Why _did_ you want to tag along tonight?" I could feel my left eyebrow climbing to a ridiculously high altitude on my forehead (a trait that I shared with John), conveying my skepticism to a T. "It wasn't just because you 'didn't want to owe me anything', was it?"

Sherlock cleared his throat softly, refusing to meet my eyes. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"You're a horrible liar, Sherlock."

"I… took a case." He admitted, mumbling under his breath. His long fingers fiddled with the sheet music on the coffee table as he pretended to busy himself in the hopes that I wouldn't ask more questions. As _if_.

"You took a _case_? Why didn't you tell me?"

Sherlock shrugged, like it wasn't a big deal. "It never came up."

"So, why did you want to tag along then? What does a night with my family have to do with anything?"

"There was a threat of some sort. Nothing serious. Just wanted to make sure nothing happened while you were out."

"A threat…" I looked around the room, searching for something out of the ordinary that I might have missed in my anticipation of the visit with my family. "How did you get a threat? Actually, no. First of all, _who_ threatened you?"

"Moriarty. James Moriarty, to be exact."

"Well, if you know who it is, why haven't you called Lestrade?"

Sherlock scoffed. "And have half-wit detectives assigned to me as a protective detail? Please. They can hardly tie their own shoelaces."

"Sherlock…" It dawned on me then. The reason why Sherlock had insisted upon following me to my parents'. "Were you… protecting me or something? Did Moriarty threaten _me_?"

"I worried, yes. But as for threatening you, I hardly know. I received a message in the post, Christmas Day I think it was, that read simply, 'I.O.U'." He said. "I've been over and over it in my mind… I can't think of what he could possibly want. But… with Moriarty, nothing is certain. Honestly, I'm not even certain that it _is_ a threat… though I do get the feeling…" Sherlock's voice trailed off and I watched as he settled into an almost meditative silence.

This whole situation was boggling me. Sherlock was clueless as to why this 'Moriarty' would have left him a message and I was still stuck on the fact that Sherlock had worried for me enough to make sure I was safe. "Have you dealt with him before?"

"Once. With John." Sherlock told me, but I could tell that he wasn't invested in the conversation anymore. My mind was wandering, too. I thought I recognized Moriarty's name from somewhere… maybe from John's blog. I would have to look tonight, when Sherlock was asleep. He was the only one with a laptop. One that he never used, but even so. I would have to be cautious. If he followed me to my parents' flat, that meant that he was desperate. And it also meant that he was out of his depth. I'd never seen him worry like this.

"Uh… about tonight, again, I'm…"

"Sorry. Yes. You said that already."

"Okay, then." I ran a hand through my hair, not knowing what else to do. I didn't know what to say. What to think. All of this was just… suddenly wrong. I had thought that I would find a friend in Sherlock, but all I had found so far was myself getting lost in a labyrinth of mystery and mayhem. Not including Sherlock's job, which he had apparently resumed and had consequently decided to keep that fact from me. And even though I felt utterly alone at times, as I did in this moment, I couldn't fathom how I would feel now if I hadn't chosen to move in to 221 B.

I didn't even know if I would have survived the last few months if Sherlock hadn't been around to keep me distracted. But the fact was that I had, and that I was moving forward. Slowly, of course. Sometimes, almost indiscernibly… but I _was_ moving. And that was better than nothing.

And what was more, I found that I could still _feel_. That had come as both a surprise and a relief. I had thought that I would be numb for the rest of my life. But that wasn't the case. Not with Sherlock. Lately, I'd found myself consumed by his every move. Being amused by the way he rolled his eyes when I would ask him a question he deemed idiotic instead of being aggravated. Watching the way he fiddled with his violin even when he wasn't playing, seeing how he gazed at it with an affection that only a musician can have for their instrument. And even though I knew that there was no way he would ever look at another human being with anything other than barely disguised disdain, there was something endearing about it. Then, there were the days he would ignore me. Or be absolutely intolerable just for the hell of it.

And instead of all of these things separating me from him, instead of being stuck behind the wall that Sherlock was trying to build to keep me out, I found myself connecting with him even more than I already had. Of course, he would notice this soon enough and try better, more brutal strategies to drive me away. But until then… until then…

Who knew?

* * *

Later on in the night, after much tossing and turning, I gave up trying to sleep and sat up in my bed with an aggravated sigh. I really did despise nights like this. When I was absolutely dying to close my eyes and drown in unconsciousness, my body decided to dash my hopes and refused to settle down. I groped blindly for my bedside table, searching for my latest read, but only got as far as turning on the lamp before there was a soft knock at my door. Of course, before I could ask who it was, the door creaked open a ways and there stood Sherlock.

"Ah, good. You're awake."

My eyebrows crinkled, giving away my confusion and I sat up to face him more directly. "Are you okay? Is something wrong?"

"Too quiet." He said simply, hesitating in my doorway.

What had caught my attention wasn't the fact that Sherlock was tapping on my bedroom door at who knew what hour of the night, as I hadn't checked, but the fact that he'd mentioned that it was too quiet. Too quiet. For Sherlock Holmes, the _brooder_. But I didn't ask him any questions, other than this:

"Do you want to come in?"

Sherlock gave me the briefest flash of a smile, or what would have been a smile should it have lasted longer than it did, and gave me a nod. Without waiting for me to say anything else, he rushed in and walked over to the opposite side of my bed, the one that was bare and unoccupied. Surprisingly, he flounced down on top of the covers and tucked his arms neatly behind his head when he was comfortable without even glancing in my direction to see how I would react to any of it.

After a few seconds, I cleared my throat.

"I thought you wanted to talk." I half stated, half asked.

Without opening his eyes, he said, "This is enough."

A smile began to form on my lips, one that I refused to fight. He found comfort in my company. Why _shouldn't_ I be happy about that?

"Okay."

He laid there for a very long time in silence while I, on the other hand, tried to pretend to read my book. I know I must have scanned the same paragraph at least six consecutive times, as I was too distracted to bring myself to try and extract any information out of the page. Sherlock gave me the excuse I needed to stop 'reading' when his voice broke the silence.

"Where are you going? With your life." He murmured. "Do you know?"

I put my book down. "Sometimes. Sometimes not."

Sherlock turned his head toward me, eyes observing my every move as he asked his next question. "What changes?"

"I do." I told him. "I change. What makes me satisfied with my life may differ from one day to the next. Books. Songs. _People_. It doesn't matter how small it seems. Sometimes it changes everything."

"People." Sherlock murmured, turning away from me. "Interesting."

And it was… _I_ thought. Even though I didn't know what _he_ was referring to, I knew what I was relating it to. People _were_ interesting and none more so than Sherlock Holmes. When I first moved in with him, I had thought him an enigma. And maybe he still was. Maybe I just couldn't see it anymore. It was the moments like this that allowed me a little insight into the man behind the mask. But I figured that wouldn't last long. Considering he was so observant, I calculated that I had about… ten seconds more to enjoy the moment.

He looked over at me. Unfortunately, I hadn't the good sense to look away so when he caught my gaze, he hurriedly looked toward the ceiling. And that's where he stayed for several seconds, obviously thoughtful.

Sighing suddenly, he jumped up from the bed and began to make his way to my door. "Goodnight, Katherine."

"Goodnight."

Without another word, Sherlock disappeared around the corner and I fell back on my pillows with an aggravated sigh.

My time was up.

* * *

The next morning, I awoke to the buzzing of a phone. Blinking heavily to ward off sleep, I reached toward the origin of the sound that had so rudely pulled me from unconsciousness. When I found it, I swiped my index finger across the screen to answer without checking the Caller ID.

Voice heavy with sleep, what came out sounded less like me and more like a junkie coming out of a drug induced haze. "Hello?"

"Kat!" Dana's shrill voice squealed from the other end of the line, sending me recoiling from the receiver so fast that I nearly dropped it. "Kat, you'll never believe what just happened!"

I recovered quickly, trying to act invested in the conversation. "What?" I asked, propping myself halfheartedly on my elbows so I didn't collapse back into the beckoning fluff of my pillows.

"A few weeks ago, I applied for this job in Seattle, you know at a really huge law firm. I did it on a whim, just because. I mean, what could it hurt, right? Well, I just checked my e-mail and I GOT IT!" She shouted, "I got the job!"

"Wow!" I did my best to sound excited. "That's great, Dana. Really."

She hardly took a breath before she launched into another sentence. "Isn't it!? And, well, see, I just got back into town from Seattle and I'm calling because while I was looking around for apartments in the area, I-"

"Wait," Suddenly, I felt very awake. "You're already looking for an _apartment_?" The word felt foreign on my lips, sitting there uncomfortably for a few moments before Dana spoke again.

"Of course! I'm leaving for Seattle in three weeks."

"Three _weeks_? Have you told anyone?"

"Yes." She assured me quickly. "You. Anyway, I was looking for apartments and ran across this guy, this med student that was doing his residency at Providence Regional and he said that there was an opening there. That they needed an experienced M.D. who had training in the more 'clinical' aspect of things. See, all of the doctors are pulling double shifts trying to keep the clinic running and they would really appreciate the help."

"Wait, Dana. Hold on. You _talked_ to them already?"

"Well, yes." She said hesitantly. "And I also…kind of put in an application for you?"

"_Dana_!" I shouted, bolting upright in my bed. "What the hell!?"

"Don't overreact!" Dana shot back. "It's just an application. I mean, you're working at that shoebox of a medical center in London when you could be somewhere huge like Providence and I just thought…"

"What? What did you think? Dana, you _falsified_ an application for me at Providence Regional which happens to be located in _Seattle_." My pulse was too fast. Much too fast. "Seattle, Dana!"

"Yes, I _know_. But I thought that it would give you an option. And on the other hand, you and I could be roommates. Like we always wanted, remember?"

"But, Seattle?"

"Oh, my God, will you stop with that!?" Dana groaned, the sound rumbling across the line. "Yes, it's Seattle. But you used to want to do things like this, Katherine. You used to want to take a job that required you to move away from England. Even after…" She stopped herself for a few beats. "Look, as far as I knew, you still wanted it! What changed?"

_Everything. _

"I don't know." I lied. "I just… God, I don't know. Maybe I'm overreacting."

"Really?" Dana asked flatly. "What could possibly give you that idea?"

"Shut up. You sprang that on me. What else was I supposed to do?"

"Say 'Thank you Dana!' and move on. Or… tell me that you'll move to Seattle if you get the job?"

A startled laugh broke free from my parted lips before I could stop it. When she didn't join in, I froze. "You're serious."

"Yeah, I am."

"Sorry, Dana." I mumbled, feeling my cheeks burn out of remorse for being so rude. "I mean… I'll think on it, but I'm not sure…"

"You don't have to be sure." She reminded me. "Not yet. If they offer it to you, you could fly out and check out the hospital and the apartment and just… explore if you wanted. Nobody's pressuring you to say yes right away."

_Nobody except you._

"I know. And maybe I will. But I do have one question."

"What?"

"When did you get to be so American? '_Apartment'_." I mocked her, grinning as she faked a laugh on the other end of the phone.

"You're hilarious, Kat. Really." Dana muttered. "Look, I'll talk to you later, okay? I'm meeting a guy for lunch."

Lunch? I whipped around to look at my alarm clock and saw that it was indeed almost lunchtime. Throwing back my covers, I hopped out of bed with alarming speed and raced toward my window, noticing for the first time that someone had drawn the curtains.

"O-okay." I stammered. "Fine. I'll talk to you later. Bye."

Without waiting for her answer, I hung up the phone and tossed it back on my bed. Who in the world would have drawn my curtains? Tiptoeing cautiously to the door, I opened it and peeked outside into the hall as I had seen Sherlock do so often.

"Sherlock?" I called softly. "Are you home?"

I heard muffled voices coming from the living room and found myself walking toward the sound. Peering around the wall, I saw Sherlock sitting in his usual spot, facing someone with flaming red hair. Realizing who it was, I no longer felt the need to hide.

"Mycroft?"

Sherlock's older brother turned to me with a sarcastic and flat smile. "Katherine." He greeted me coolly. "Come in. Sit."

Sherlock cut his gaze sharply to Mycroft in a way that made me suddenly suspicious. "Mycroft, what are you doing?" He asked.

Mycroft shot the same emotionless smile at his brother. "Having a chat with your flat mate, Sherlock. Isn't it obvious?"

I pointed over my shoulder. "I can just go if that's better…"

"No." Mycroft said at the exact moment Sherlock barked out: "Yes!"

Torn between my curiosity and my overwhelming urge to run, I found myself sitting down in the red armchair that sat across the coffee table from Sherlock. Mycroft sat on the couch, so I felt that I had the distance required to be a little safer.

The silence stretched on for a few moments longer than was necessary, Sherlock glaring at Mycroft and Mycroft, in turn, ignoring him and instead focusing his attention on me.

Deciding that there was no need for the situation to be even more unbearably awkward than it already was, I cleared my throat. "You wouldn't know who closed my curtains would you?"

"I did." Sherlock said breezily. "It's Saturday. You should sleep in when you can."

"You were in my room?" I asked, alarmed more on the terms that he'd more than likely been witness to my completely unattractive tendency to snore (very deeply, and very loudly).

"Only for a moment." He assured me, still staring at Mycroft.

With a nod in Sherlock's direction, I found the nerve to face his brother. "So… er… what brings you here, Mycroft?"

"You, Doctor Watson."

I saw Sherlock bristle in my peripheral vision and I bit my tongue, trying to keep from biting my lip and making it obvious how uncomfortable I was in that moment. Doctor Watson. I knew who Sherlock was thinking of.

"Oh?" I made sure there wasn't a shake in my voice before I went on. "Why?"

"Did I or did I not make it clear that you were to contact me should anything unusual arise?" Mycroft asked coldly, his cordial demeanor gone in an instant.

My mind wandered back to the Christmas party, when Mycroft had pulled me aside and asked me to… how did he put it? To… 'Keep an eye on things'. Which, of course, I had assured him that I would with the knowledge that there was no way in hell that I would ever report back to him as if Sherlock were some naughty child in primary school and I the principal that kept Mycroft apprised of his behavior.

"You did." I answered back, calm and collected as one could be in a situation like mine.

"This isn't necessary." Sherlock interrupted. "I'm not a child, Mycroft."

"Quiet, brother mine." Mycroft hushed him swiftly. "I'm talking to the kind Doctor." When Mycroft looked back at me, he pressed his lips together in a way that made me think he was more than disappointed in me. And for some reason, that affected me more than it should have. "Now. Didn't you think that a note in the post from a Mr. James Moriarty was more than unusual?"

"I might have. But I only _just_ found out myself. Last night, in fact."

"And yet, I didn't hear from you."

"It was late."

"And you thought that time mattered?" Mycroft chuckled humorlessly. "You obviously don't know me, Doctor. I am _everywhere_. Why else do you think I am here? Did you think that Sherlock told me?"

A quick glance at Sherlock confirmed that he hadn't told Mycroft a thing. My skin began to crawl. Who in the world was this man?

"No." I said, sitting up a little straighter.

"Hmm." Mycroft leaned back in his seat. "You don't seem very frightened, Doctor Watson."

"And you don't seem very frightening."

_Liar, liar, liar_….

Mycroft seemed to have found the answer he was looking for, as he cast Sherlock one last look, one of bewildering amusement, and stood from his seat. Walking slowly toward the door, umbrella swinging, he finally answered my statement with two words of his own.

"We'll see."


	12. Chapter 12

_**First of all, I would like to thank Little-Annie, AmeliaRoseOswald, Littlebirdd, Lady Gisborne 15, and Witty Lady for their reviews, as well as anyone who followed and favorited this story! You have all been so supportive and it's been such an encouragement during the taking on of this project. I wasn't sure about posting it at first, but I'm so glad that I did. **_

_**And... sorry for the cliffhanger ^.^ **_

_**I hope you all enjoy chapter 12!**_

_**-lightinside**_

* * *

_**{Chapter 12 Mini-List}**_

_**Secret - Missy Higgins**_

_**Holding on and Letting Go - Ross Copperman**_

_**How's It Going to Be? - PT Walkley**_

* * *

I could hardly make sense of all of the sensations beating at my brain, but the most prominent was what I thought to be a healthy dose of fear. And when Mycroft was gone and I knew that I could stay calm if I opened my mouth to speak, I turned to Sherlock.

"Why was he here?"

"Worried for me, apparently." Sherlock scoffed, rolling his eyes. "Unnecessary."

"You don't think... You don't think he _should_ be worried, do you?"

"Of course not." Sherlock snapped, but I could see that beneath all of his bravado, he was second-guessing himself.

"Okay." I said, not wanting to push him any further.

Thinking about everything that had happened over the past several weeks, the past months, even, made me wonder if moving to Seattle wasn't such a bad idea. Dana had already put in my application. All I would have to do was let Sarah know that I had a job possibility and she could start looking for someone to fill my position when I went in to interview… but I couldn't leave now, could I? With Sherlock getting vague threats in the post and Mycroft acting especially sinister about the whole situation, I wondered if my leaving would be a good thing.

Mycroft would welcome it, I was sure. I could tell he wasn't especially fond of me. But as for Sherlock… well, that remained to be seen. He would probably welcome my departure just as much as his brother. No one to bug him about the state of the flat or the growing heap of unpaid bills. No one to complain about his science equipment or his attitude. Everything could go back to the way it was before I had set foot on Baker Street.

Except that it wouldn't. I knew that. That even if Sherlock wasn't haunted by my memory, I would be haunted by his. Looking for his face around every corner. Thinking that if I just closed my eyes and listened, that I could faintly hear him playing Brahms on his violin.

But… that was exactly the reason I needed to seriously consider this opportunity. I didn't want to love anyone. I didn't want to love _him_. And I didn't, not yet. Which was why I needed to go. I needed to go before I had reached the point of no return. Before Sherlock realized why I was acting so strange. Before I lost our friendship along with the possibility of whatever it was that _could_ come to be.

Sherlock huffed suddenly and pushed himself upright, standing with a little bounce that made his curls airborne for a fraction of an instant. "This is boring." He commented, looking past me. "Come on."

I watched as he got his coat from the rack by the door, wondering when he would notice that I was still in my pajamas; wondering if he was just _that_ distracted.

"Uh…" I began, when Sherlock had opened the door and was halfway out of it. "I'm not dressed."

"Hurry up, then." He snapped unceremoniously before heading out of the door anyway.

Muttering under my breath, I walked swiftly back to my room, changed into more suitable attire and brushed my teeth quickly to make sure that my breath would only smell of toothpaste before I grabbed my mobile from the bed and slung my purse over my shoulder. Deciding that I was ready for whatever it was we were heading off to do, I exited my room and shut the door soundly behind me.

When I reached the stairs, I saw him leaning against the wall in the entry way, eyes closed as if to ward off unwanted thoughts. Sherlock noticed me only as I descended the last step, even though I had tried to make as much noise as possible to keep from startling him. Without a single word, he rushed out of the front door and onto the sidewalk with such speed that I had to walk twice as fast to keep up with him.

"Where are you _going_?" I called after him, as I was falling behind despite my best efforts.

"For a walk." He replied without slowing.

"No shit, genius." I nearly shouted after him, gaining the attention of some very curious passersby as I did so. "But can you _slow down_?"

Sherlock finally stopped walking, turning back to watch me without as much as a condescending smile. Something was seriously wrong. When I had caught up to him and he knew it was safe for him to walk again, he did, but his pace had slowed considerably. It seemed that Sherlock realized that he was being inconsiderate, seeing as how he had been the one to usher me out of the flat in the first place.

But, by then, I couldn't take anymore. I couldn't _not_ ask questions.

"Stop for just a minute." I said, tugging on his arm so that he would face me. "What's going on with you? You keep telling me that it's nothing and then you act like this. So, don't lie again. Just… d'you mind telling me the truth? Is that so hard for you to do?"

"I don't know." Sherlock murmured. "And that's the problem."

I crossed my arms against the very sudden and brisk gust of wind, snuggling into my coat as I looked at him. "You don't know everything, Sherlock. Nobody does. That's just life."

"That's not the point." He retorted moodily. "Moriarty is toying with me. This is what he wants, I know it. And yet there isn't anything else for me to do other than…"

"Obsess." I finished.

"Precisely."

"Look, you got a message in the post. Until further notice, that's all it is. A note. My advice is to take it to Lestrade. If you don't want a protective detail, fine. But it does no good for you to sit at home and let it consume you."

"I don't need his help." Sherlock stated adamantly, looking toward the ground.

"Yes, you do." I argued with him as gently as I could. "You do need his help. This is dangerous. For you and for me."

His eyes flicked back up to mine and stayed there for what I thought might have been a good six seconds. Long enough to make me feel like my heart was going to beat out of my chest. I could see that he was considering it. For some reason, wherever I was concerned, he seemed to think twice before acting flippant about whatever situation we might find ourselves in. And that was… different than before. Somehow.

The shift was almost imperceptible. And even though that was true, I saw it… either that or I had finally snapped under the weight of all of my hopes and was now doomed to see things that were not there.

"Fine." Sherlock said finally, caving in to my logic. "I'll take the note to Lestrade. Will that make you happy?"

"And ask for his help."

His eyes flashed as his stance went from compliant to indignant in an instant. "I'm not going to _ask_ for Lestrade's help, Katherine. I won't have to."

With pursed lips, I made a sound that sounded something like 'humph.' "Alright, Sherlock. Whatever you say."

"Stop that." He hissed. "I hate it when you do that."

"Do what?" I asked innocently as we walked toward the curb to hail a cab.

"You…" Sherlock's mouth opened and closed a few times as he searched desperately for the words that would make me remorseful for whatever it was that he thought I had done. "You know exactly what I'm talking about." He muttered finally. "Don't pretend that you don't."

"Okay."

Sherlock groaned, accompanied by a heavily exaggerated eye roll that was thrown in my direction before he crawled in the cab. I followed him quickly, as I was suddenly afraid he would leave me out in the cold just to be spiteful, but instead of apologizing, I realized that I was grinning. He glanced over at me several times, trying to ignore the fact that I was unperturbed by his infantile behavior, and I realized that he was fighting off a smile of his own. Apparently it was as much a mystery to him as it was to me, how I put up with him.

Finally, the corners of his mouth turned up just enough for me to see that he wasn't nearly as put out as he acted and I, in turn, tore my gaze away from him and took to looking out of the window. I would have been happy to sit there, smiling at him all day if that were possible. But I had to maintain _some_ of my dignity. If that was even likely at this point.

When we arrived at Scotland Yard, I was still lost in my own thoughts and hardly noticed when Sherlock opened his car door and exited the cab. When I did look up, I saw him standing on the curb, staring at my window, lips pressed together as a sign of his impatience. Wondering how long I had been sitting in the car, I blushed and hurried out to stand beside him.

"Sorry." I murmured, tucking a lock of stray hair behind my ear uncomfortably.

Sherlock said nothing about my bizarre behavior and instead, pulled out his phone.

"What're you doing?" I asked, glancing around. "I thought we were going to see Lestrade."

"We will." Sherlock said, pressing _Send_ on his phone. "As soon as he comes out that door."

Rolling my eyes, I leaned against the nearest lamppost for a little shelter against the wind. It was freezing out, and I would have rather gone inside to escape the biting chill that nipped at my skin even through my coat, but if Sherlock had feigned an emergency, I had no doubt that Lestrade would be rushing out of the entrance doors to the Yard at any moment now.

"You shouldn't do that." I said, my voice mingling with the honking of horns and rumbling of engines. "Frighten him like that."

"What do you mean?"

"There's only one reason we would be standing out here right now, waiting on him. And that's if you knew for certain that Lestrade would come immediately. Which, he wouldn't, not if he didn't think that we were in trouble."

A sly smile played at the corners of Sherlock's mouth. "Hmm."

Realizing that what I had said only added to his amusement, I closed my mouth promptly. There was no point in wasting my breath, trying to make him feel guilty over something that he obviously thought nothing of.

As I had predicted, Lestrade came stumbling out onto the street only seconds later. When he saw us, the panic disappeared from his features and was immediately replaced by annoyance.

"Whaddya want, Sherlock? I'm busy."

"Not busy enough to ignore my text." Sherlock shot back brusquely, strolling toward the D.I. in what I thought was a very lax manner despite his tone.

Lestrade crossed his arms, glaring at him. "You said it was an emergency!"

"It is."

The D.I. huffed for a moment, looking round to see if there was any obvious reason that we should be calling on him, but apparently saw none. "Obviously not."

"It _is_!" Sherlock argued, and thus started a substantial amount of bickering between the two of them. I watched for a few minutes until I was almost too cold to keep myself from interfering. Still, I waited. It was at this moment in time that I wished with all of my heart that I could conjure up a video camera, so that I would have evidence of Sherlock's infinite ability to astound.

"It doesn't look like an emergency!" Lestrade insisted, breath coming out in visible puffs due to the extreme cold. It was almost funny. If one could forget about the cold, you would almost think the D.I. appeared to be somewhat like a dragon; awakened from a deep sleep and out for the blood of the one who did the waking.

"Well, I wouldn't be here if it wasn't!" Sherlock shouted back and then paused. "Oh, no. There was that one time…"

"And the time after, and the time after _that_!" Lestrade reminded him scornfully, eyes narrowed. "This had better be important. You know I could have you arrested."

"For _what_!?"

"Interfering with a police investigation."

"But I'm not!" Sherlock whined, too caught up in the moment to remember completely the fact that Lestrade was only making empty threats because he was more than put out.

"Well…" Lestrade's mouth opened and closed several times before he sighed heavily. "You could have been!"

"God," I groaned, finally stepping in. "Will both of you just _shut up_?" I took a confident step forward, ignoring the murderous looks that both men were sending my way. "Lestrade, we came here because Sherlock got something in the post from someone named James Moriarty. He worried over it for days and I finally insisted that he bring you in on the situation."

"I have _not_." Sherlock muttered resentfully, scuffing his feet on the ground like a scolded child.

"Moriarty?" Lestrade's eyebrows inched skyward. "I thought we took care of him."

"We did." Sherlock said, no longer paying me any mind. "He's back. And apparently, he..," I watched curiously as the corners of Sherlock's mouth twisted in contempt, "owes me."

Quickly, Sherlock's lean fingers reached into his pocket and snatched up the note that I had not yet seen before giving it to Lestrade for closer inspection. The D.I. studied it with a frustrated wonder that I had often seen on Sherlock's face when he was talking about (and often reliving) various cases he'd taken if I happened to ask about them. Truth be told, I wasn't interested in the stories so much as the childish glee I saw burning bright within him as he relayed them to me.

"What in hell is this supposed to mean?"

Sherlock sighed, throwing me a look that screamed 'I told you so'. "See?" He asked flatly. "I knew this wouldn't help."

Ignoring Sherlock this time, I stepped up to Lestrade. "Look, can you have some of your people watch the flat? Just in case? This whole thing is too bizarre for me to feel comfortable with going about my day like nothing happened."

I felt a discreet elbow nudging me in the side, but I acted as if I hadn't noticed. I refused to look back at Sherlock, partly because I knew what was waiting for me once I did, and partly because I was asking a _genuine_ question. Sherlock didn't want a protective detail, but maybe if Lestrade realized that Sherlock wasn't the only one involved, he would assign one to me and therefore offhandedly protect my flat mate as well.

"Sure, sure." He said, running a hand through his peppered hair. "Meanwhile, I'll see if I can't do some digging; figure out what this ruddy thing means."

"Thanks." I replied in earnest, hoping that Sherlock would continue to keep his mouth shut. "So, we're alright to go home?"

"I should think so." Lestrade glanced around the street once more before looking back at me. "I'll have some guys over at Baker Street within the hour."

We left with hurried goodbyes and hopped back into our cab that Sherlock had thoughtfully kept on standby while we had talked to Lestrade. As I settled into my seat, the stench of cigarette smoke and sour clothing assaulting my nostrils, I watched as the Detective Inspector gave us a polite wave and then disappeared into the building.

Even though I knew that no one on the task force was as quick on their feet as Sherlock, for some reason, I felt a little safer knowing that Lestrade was going to look out for both of us. Of course, Sherlock would complain about it until my ears bled, but I figured that it was worth it.

"I thought I said no detail." Sherlock stated bluntly as we travelled back to Baker Street.

"I heard you." I told him primly. "But I never agreed."

His mouth dropped open and I saw that he was on the precipice of arguing with me, but realized that I was, in fact, right. I hadn't agreed with him. Only pacified him in the hopes of getting him to agree to take the note to Lestrade.

"That was very…"

"I know."

Defense was not needed in this case, I could see that right off. After thinking that he would fight me, tooth and nail, he didn't say a word; only looked at me with that same vague curiosity that I had seen more often than not as of late.

Surprisingly, instead of analyzing it, I moved on. My mind wandered to Seattle; to the possibility of something brand new. And not to mention that it was a fantastic job opportunity on top of the swift and effective route of escape that it presented me with. And then, even though my mind was somewhere else, my gaze settled on the lean figure that sat just in arm's reach on the other side of the cab.

If I just… If he…

But I couldn't. And he wouldn't.

So… what then? What did I do with that? Where did I _go_ from here? The simple fact was that there was nowhere _to_ go with any of what I had just forced myself to see. And the truth of the matter was that there was nothing to keep me in London. There was no point in deluding myself into thinking that there might be at any given point and time and even if there might have been, I knew that no matter what, Sherlock would never be capable of giving me an outright reason to stay. Everything he did concerning me was too subliminal to matter. It _shouldn't_ matter. But it did.

Tearing my eyes away from Sherlock, I turned my head so that I faced the window instead. It was easier to admit if I didn't have to look at him; easier to breathe. And breathing would have been easier still if I hadn't felt like I was drowning. But I knew that I could only be free of that feeling if I made the right choice. And the right choice... well, maybe there wasn't one. But there was _a _choice to be made.

And I would call Dana in the morning with mine.


	13. Chapter 13

_**Hi everyone! Okay, so... **_

_**THIS IS IMPORTANT! **_

_**I need to address something really quickly. I know that everyone, as well as myself, has started school. I will not have nearly as much time to write, just as you all will not have an infinite amount of time to relax and read my chapters. So, that being said, I have decided that I will begin my writing schedule for the school-year by updating on Saturdays, sometime in the afternoon or evening so that there will be less of a possibility of you guys missing a chapter. This begins as of now. Chapter 14 will be coming your way next Saturday. **_

_**Thank you Lady Gisborne 15, Jess Marilyn, and Witty Lady for reviewing on chapter 12! I'm so glad to hear from you and to know what you think of the story so far! And, in answer to your question Jess Marilyn, you'll just have to wait and see. :) **_

_**THIS IS ALSO IMPORTANT!**_

_**I know that I've mentioned this many times before on my other stories, but the time has come for Lady Gisborne 15 and I to begin writing for our collaboration account: BeautyWithinTheBeasts. Originally, we had planned on beginning with a Once Upon A Time fanfiction, but have now decided on one for Sherlock. Since I'm already writing for it and Ariana has become equally obsessed, we will be working tirelessly over the next month to bring you the first chapter of what we have agreed to call 'Only Human' under our account. **_

_**I am so excited to take on this project with her, as she is one of the most wonderful and considerate people that I've ever known and is an absolute joy to work with. **__**Please, if you enjoy my work, please check out Ariana's account; Lady Gisborne 15. She is extremely talented and so very creative and I'm so lucky to call her my best friend. **_

_**Now that you've read my mile long intro, I just want to say that I hope you enjoy chapter 13 and I hope to hear from you in the reviews!**_

_**-lightinside**_

* * *

The morning of my life-altering call to Dana was dull, almost as if London was confirming the lack of opportunities I had whilst I lived here. And my mind was whispering to me, agreeing with the chilly, uneventful day; "Seattle", it said. "Seattle, Seattle, Seattle."

With a frown that could be considered almost a pout, I took a deep breath and drew out my phone from my pocket. It was safe to make the call, I decided, since Sherlock was not around and probably wouldn't be for the rest of the day. Or at least until he grew hungry. He'd gone out with Mrs. Hudson to do some shopping, as his protective instincts had kicked in and he'd refused to allow her to go alone. Smiling, I had agreed with him and sent both of them on their way.

And now, I knew I could no longer delay the inevitable. The call was the only thing standing between me and Seattle. And if I chose to go…

God, I couldn't be sure. I was so torn in two directions. And it wasn't even that I had my heart set on staying here, it was just… I wasn't reluctant to go, but I wasn't eager either. I was on middle-ground; the indecisive and the irritating line between flying and falling. But I knew that there was only one way to find out which one it would be.

I dialed Dana's number and closed my eyes, trying to calm my panicked heart that made me feel like all of my blood was rushing to my head even though I was standing upright. Was this supposed to be what it felt like? Was this going to be my life? Me, drowning in my own uncertainty, weighing my choices between what I might want and what others wanted for me?

"Kat?" Dana's voice brought me out of my thoughts. "I didn't expect to hear back from you so soon."

"Well, I…" Should I lie? Or should I just be blunt? She would know if I was lying, I babbled every single time that I tried. Best go with the truth. "I wanted to go ahead and get this over with."

"Oh." She sounded a little disheartened, but I tried to ignore it. There was some small victory to be had in that I was slowly finding the courage to speak my mind. And whether she liked it or not, I knew that it would be what was best for me in the end.

"I've decided… look." I bit my lip for a moment to buy myself some time. "New Year's is coming up. I can take a few days off work and do what you said; explore. And I can interview while I'm in Seattle, check out the place and stuff. And before you say anything, this is the best thing I've come up with. Because, Dana, honestly, I don't know if I want this job, but I also don't know if I _don't_ want it. Does that make any sense?"

"Yeah." She admitted, a little happier now that I hadn't given her an outright 'no'. "And that might be best. For you to know what you're getting yourself into before you jump."

A relieved sigh made its way from my lips. "Yeah." I agreed. "And you'll be there by then, right? I can just stay with you instead of getting a room somewhere."

"Absolutely! I can take you to your interview and everything!"

"Okay. I just have one request."

"What?"

"Do _not_, under any circumstances, tell your mum about any of this."

Dana scoffed. "As if. If I tell my mum, she'll tell your mum, and we'll never hear the end of it."

"You know, I knew there was a reason we were still friends." I teased, smiling now that some of the weight had been lifted from my shoulders.

My best friend snorted from the other end of the line. "Please. You couldn't stop being my friend if you tried."

I pretended to contemplate it. "Ummmm…"

"No." She finished for me, daring me to argue.

"Fine, fine." I laughed. "Look, I've got to go. If I'm going to start planning for this trip, I've got phone calls to make and a flight to book and I've-"

"Ugh," Dana groaned. "Please. Do not depress me with your practicality."

"Got to do it all before Sherlock gets back." I finished slowly, wincing at the sudden and awkward silence that ensued.

Dana had taken longer than twenty seconds to come back with a response and I knew that she was about to scold me. "Katherine, are you telling me you haven't talked to Sherlock about any of this?"

"No." I mumbled, cheeks aflame. "But he doesn't have to know. Not until I've had the interview, anyway."

"That's not… you…" Dana sighed and I could just see her putting her palm to her forehead, wondering why she had to deal with me. "Katherine, just tell him. It'll be so much better if you get it out of the way."

"No, it won't." I protested, "It absolutely won't."

There was a long silence on the other end of the line and I could almost hear the gears turning in Dana's mind. And the few seconds before she started to speak, there might have been a 'ding' accompanied by the depiction of a light bulb floating above her head, if this was a cartoon. And if it had been a cartoon, I might have been smiling.

"You like him." Dana murmured, almost to herself. "I don't know why I didn't see it before. But you…"

"I do _not_!" I squeaked, trying desperately to backtrack. "It's just none of his business!"

"You do _so_!" Dana argued hotly, "Or it wouldn't be this big of a deal! All you talked about for _years_ after Harry and John left home was getting out of London and going to the States so that you could have your own life away from your mum and all of a sudden, you are so _cozy_ and so happy with the thought of spending the rest of your life on Baker Street – God, I'm such an idiot! Why didn't you just tell me?"

"I don't want to talk about this right now, Dana. It's nothing."

"Right. Just like everything else. 'It's nothing'. God, Kat. When are you going to start being honest with yourself?"

"Why are you so upset!?" I demanded, my blood beginning to boil. "This has nothing to do with you."

"I'm not mad that you didn't tell me! I'm _furious_ that you're still trying to convince yourself that there's nothing there. I was at the Christmas party, you know. I saw him, looking at you the entire time. Molly kept trying to get his attention, but all he could see was you." Dana insisted. "It may not be the overwhelming kind of love that you see in the movies, but there is _something_. And if this is the reason you're going to Seattle, to get away from him, you'll regret it for the rest of your life."

"I'm going because I want to. I'd be an idiot not to."

"Katherine, you're an idiot anyway. But if you tell me one more time that you don't love him, then you're a liar, too."

Dana had said it again. Love. The word stopped me cold. And even though it made me think, I wasn't lying… not to her and not to myself. I felt the same way I had the day before; I wasn't _in_ love with him. Not yet. But did I love him? Sure. Like anyone loved their best friend or their first pet.

"I don't." I repeated, all the anger leeched from my tone. "Not yet."

"Not _yet_." Dana, to my dismay, sounded extremely satisfied with herself. What was satisfying about this? This whole situation was confusing as hell and I hadn't the first clue as to what I should do about it. She wanted me to label my feelings, like they were leftovers encased in Tupperware instead of emotions that unsettled my heart. "But you would, you know. If you stayed."

"I don't want to love him." I told her honestly. "I don't have it in me. I've lost everyone I cared about and I'd really rather not add him to the list. It would… Dana, it would probably kill me."

"So, you're scared." She said. "Everyone is terrified of that, you know. Thinking that if you open up to someone enough that they'll dive in and you'll never be able to tear them out of your heart. And that if you do manage it, your heart will go with them and you'll just… bleed."

"Poetic to a fault." I remarked dryly, settling down into a chair.

"Shut up. I'm trying." Dana cleared her throat. "As I was saying, yeah, there's a possibility that things will happen; things that make you think that your world is going to collapse and that you'll go down with it. But it's not always that way. Katherine, you could be _happy_. I mean, I've met the guy and he's a real asshole sometimes, but he's… different with you."

"My dad said something about it the last time Sherlock and I saw him. Not that long ago, actually." I murmured, mostly to myself. "That we were both oblivious to what was right there."

"And if your dad, of all people, can see it, then why on earth can't you?"

I thought about it for a minute and decided to change the subject. There was absolutely no point in analyzing something that was hardly even in existence. "Anyway," I said after a long pause. "I've still got things to do."

"Phone calls to make, flights to book, yeah, yeah." Dana muttered. "I know. Just… think about it, alright? Don't run away just because you can."

"Will do." I said quickly, intending to do nothing of the sort. "Talk to you later."

She sighed. "Talk to you later."

I hung up the phone with alarming speed and realized that I had been holding my breath. Letting go of the pent up air that clogged my throat, I leaned forward and slammed my head into upturned palms. A large part of me wanted to scream; to scream as long as I could and as loudly as I could manage. However, considering that I wasn't that dramatic (I hoped) and I didn't want the police knocking down my door thinking that there had been a murder, I settled for a heavy sigh.

I'd made my choice and at the same time, I really hadn't. I had only bought myself a few more weeks. Which, right now, might have been the only thing I could do. For some reason, I had found myself expecting to make up my mind and then for that to be that. I had thought that I would no longer worry about what I was leaving behind; that I would set my sights on the new and unfamiliar.

I should have known better.

Torn between my head and my heart, I resolved that I would take Dana's advice. Part of it, at least. I would have to tell Sherlock about Seattle. And though the prospect seemed daunting, I found that it seemed a little easier to handle; knowing that he would be aware that I had a choice to make. Now, it just felt like I was slinking around corners and skulking off to hide my secrets under lock and key. It felt wrong.

And who was to say that this was a bad thing? My telling the truth wouldn't hurt him. I didn't think so, at least. Dana wanted me to tell him, along with so many other things, so it couldn't be _awful_. I was probably overthinking it anyway. Sherlock was… _Sherlock_. He wouldn't care about Seattle. Maybe.

Oh, _hell_, what did I know? What I needed to do was sit down and shut up. And considering that I was already sitting down, half of my to-do list was already complete. It was the shutting up part that I always seemed to have a problem with. Why couldn't I think about normal things, like bills? Bills would be _great_ compared to this! Worrying over a _crush._ I knew what this was; it was inexcusably pathetic and it had to stop immediately.

But Dana's words, however much I wanted not to think about them, beat in my brain like the rhythm of a drum. Was she right? Should I stop trying to fight my feelings and just let them be? Right now, that seemed absurd. My move to Seattle was still undecided and I saw no point in starting something that I might not be around to see through.

It would hurt us both if I acted irrationally. So, this time, Dana was wrong. I had to keep my head and in order to do that, I had to act objectively. Sherlock was, in this situation, no more than my flat mate. Someone who needed to be alerted to the fact that there might be movers in and out of the flat and family popping by at all hours of the day or night to say their goodbyes; someone that might be disturbed by all of these things. Which, he would be, I knew that. Sherlock enjoyed silence and I had the loudest relatives known to man.

My family; crude, untactful, offensive, loud, and always drinking some form of tea. I didn't know if that was common, but I wondered sometimes how it was possible that they didn't float away. And I was fairly certain that Sherlock had been planning to conduct an experiment having something to do with buoyancy the next time they visited. For a while, I thought that he had been teasing me, but now I wasn't so sure.

In that moment, I realized that I was smiling. Unsettled and slightly embarrassed, I quickly pushed the memory from my mind and stood from the armchair, which I now realized had been his.

I groaned. It seemed the world was determined to force me to keep Sherlock in the forefront of my mind, no matter how it did so. And I wasn't upset… not by that. I was upset because I was beginning to realize that all of my analyzing was doing nothing to help my situation and that all it was doing was helping me waste more time that I honestly didn't have. I wanted to talk to Sherlock and have a real conversation, not feel like I had to pick and choose the topics based on the 'ifs' and the 'maybes'. I wanted us to smile back at one another over something amusing and not feel like I was bending my neck over the platform of a guillotine.

There were so many things that I wanted… and I was just too scared to reach for them. It seemed like every time I began to make any progress in the twisted, topsy-turvy maze that was my friendship with Sherlock, I ended up going all the way 'round the board, with the order 'Do not pass go; do not collect two-hundred dollars'. This whole thing was relatively similar to Monopoly. Minus the dice and the properties.

I _had_ to take my mind off of this. At least until Sherlock returned home, as I would certainly have to deal with it all then. And then, I would have to take care of my arrangements for my visit to Seattle. I had planned on doing that first initially, but now I felt that it was important to have our conversation first before I acted on anything. That was baffling to me, especially considering my views on the whole thing.

So, not knowing what to do, I rushed over to the rack by the door and grabbed my coat. I stumbled down the stairs, nearly falling several times as I dragged my bag along while I tried to put my arms through my coat. Thankfully, I made it outside unscathed and found a cab with surprising ease. When I was settled in the cab, I pulled out my phone and texted my father.

**Are you home?**

For a few minutes, I wondered if he would answer. I hardly ever texted him, as I usually just called. But I didn't feel like talking yet. Not until we were face to face and I knew that it would all come out just as I meant it to.

**Yes. Is everything alright? – J**

Now, how in the world did I answer _that_? He would know the truth soon enough. So, why not just get it over with?

**No.**

My dad's next text came almost immediately.

**Your mum is out looking for flats. Do I need to meet you or are you coming here? – J**

I looked out of the window and saw that I was nearly there, so I decided that it would just be silly if he met me somewhere. If he did, though, it would be more public. I would have a better chance of not bawling my eyes out. Sighing at my own vulnerability, I typed back:

**On my way.**

Just as I was putting my phone in my pocket, it buzzed once more.

**I'll see you then. – J**

I hoped that he thought I was doing the right thing.


	14. Chapter 14

_**I'm back! *gasp* I kept a schedule. I can hardly believe it. This week has just flown by, I hardly realized yesterday that it was Friday and then I couldn't remember what I was supposed to do Saturday even though I knew that there was something I was forgetting about. And then it hit me that I was supposed to post and then of course, I had to sit down and type out the rest of this chapter. So, here it is! **_

_**Thank you Lady Gisborne 15, NicBarnes, Jess Marilyn, and Witty Lady for reviewing on the last chapter. I really appreciate it when you guys review; it's so upbuilding to see how much you all love the story and it helps me to progress in the story instead of finding it a chore to sit down and write. Knowing how you all feel about my work is the thing that keeps me writing. Thank you, all of you. You are all absolute gems!**_

_**I hope you enjoy chapter 14!**_

_**-lightinside**_

* * *

The cab pulled up at what I now supposed was on its way to being my dad's flat and I couldn't bring myself to step foot on the sidewalk. Suddenly, it felt like time had ceased to matter; I could sit in the cab for as long as I wanted and he would never come looking for me. When the realization that I was wrong finally made its way through my almost thoughtless haze, the front door opened.

Seeing my father's face broke the spell. I handed the driver the fare I owed him and left the car before I rushed up the stairs and found myself hugging the man that stood in front of me with an almost crushing force.

"Whoa!" He exclaimed as I all but knocked the breath out of him. "KW, what's going on?"

"Tell you in a minute." I said, and my father didn't speak again for a long time. When I was ready to release him from my hug and go inside, he made sure that I wouldn't dissolve into tears first before going into the kitchen to put on the kettle. I watched from the couch as he kept peeking around the corner, making sure that I was still holding it together. I might have laughed if I wasn't so distraught. My dad had no earthly clue what was going on or why I was here and he _still_ wasn't going to force me to talk about it before I was ready.

Well… I suspected he might have had _some_ clue. He already knew about my growing feelings for Sherlock and he kept insinuating that there was something more to be found on Sherlock's part than I was willing to see. Which, honestly, seemed more than impossible to me at the moment.

"So…" My father prompted when we were settled on the couch. "This is probably not going to go over well, but… how was your day?" He winced slightly in anticipation of my answer, which was an immediate and exaggerated groan.

"_Dad_."

"It's something people ask!" He claimed apologetically. "It's a shite question, but I have to ask it anyway."

I pressed my lips together, throwing him a look before I sighed quietly. "It was terrible."

"Why, darling?"

"Because." I answered simply. "It just was."

"Hmm." I could see that he was fighting off a smile, probably thinking that I sounded just as I had at six years old, complaining about recess on our walk home from school. Only it was so much more complicated than that. So… so much more complicated. "Well, then, tell me KW. Did you call me for silent pity or for spoken sympathy?"

I sighed again. "I dunno. I thought I wanted to talk about it. But now…"

"Tell me about it." He insisted. "You'll feel better if you let it go."

"Okay. Um… do you remember the night you were sort of… _testing_ Sherlock?"

My father's eyes began to shine with a light that seemed to mock me quietly by saying 'I told you so, I told you so'. "I believe I might."

"Well…" I threw my hands up in the air when words failed me. "I mean, you know?"

With a small laugh, my father shook his head. "I'm afraid I don't."

I scowled at him, which only seemed to double his amusement. "You're not going to make this easy for me, are you?"

"No, I'm afraid I'm not."

"_Fine_." My skin began to burn. Admitting this, to me, was almost like eating beets. You did it, not because you wanted to, but because you were told to. If my father hadn't told me to open up to him, then I might have chickened out already and diverted his attention to something else, like my mother. That would have been an almost welcome distraction. If not for him, then for me. But this had to be done, sooner rather than later, and it seemed that I already knew it. If I hadn't, then why had I come here?

"I'm in like with him. And when I say 'in like', that's what I mean. Not 'like' as in _friend_ and not 'like' as in _love_, but… almost. More than a friend and just falling short of whatever is beyond that. " I realized how insane I sounded and wondered immediately if my dad would be able to make heads or tails of my inane babble. "I don't know what's happening to me. This wasn't supposed to happen. I didn't mean for it to. It just… I dunno. I moved in and thought he was the most irritating and infuriating man I'd ever had the displeasure to meet and now…" I looked to my father, feeling very vulnerable, and very desperate. "Does any of this make sense?"

"Perfect sense." He assured me. "But it might help to elaborate."

"You just said that it made perfect sense!"

"Not for me, dear. Elaborate for yourself."

Elaborate for myself. I wished suddenly that I could ask him what he meant. But I already knew. The answer was there, inside me, but I had buried it so far away from the light that it had become incredibly easy to ignore it.

I could deny it. I could drown it out, if I wanted, but I knew now that it wouldn't change the fact that it was _there_.

It was there.

"Do you think…" I chewed on my bottom lip for a moment. "You don't…? Do you?"

My father raised both eyebrows. "Don't ask me, Katherine. Ask yourself. Do you think you love him?"

And there it was _again_. That stupid word! _Love_. What did I know about love? I'd never felt it, not like I did now.

Wait, _what_?

My eyes widened to the size of saucers.

"Oh my God." I breathed. "No. No, no, no. Not now. Not _now_."

"Why _not_ now?" My dad asked, just a little confused.

"Seattle." I found myself blurting, like an idiot. "I'm going to interview for a job in Seattle. I don't know if I'll get it… but, Dad, I can't love him. Not when I might be leaving. Just… not now."

"When did you find this out?" He seemed a little shell-shocked, but otherwise unharmed by my unceremonious announcing of my possible move.

"This morning. Yesterday, really. Made the choice to interview this morning."

"So, KW. Tell me. What are you going to do?" My dad set his cup down on the small coffee table in front of us and shifted so that he faced me more directly. "You have Sherlock and that's assured. This job isn't. You could lose it in the blink of an eye, no matter how talented you are. It's the way the world works nowadays."

"I could lose him just as easily." I remarked before I could keep from it.

My father considered this. "Perhaps. But when love is involved… that's when things happen; the magical things. Love is stronger than any medicine you could ever imagine. Stronger than steel. Burns hotter than fire. If you love the right person, if it's mutual, then love can change your whole world for the better."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"I'm telling you this, KW, because I'm wondering how much you're willing to give up. I've told you all your life to shoot for the stars; to reach as far as you could, because I knew that if anyone could do it, it was you. And I don't know when you stopped believing in magic, darling, but it's right in front of you. All you have to do is reach."

"Dad…" I fought the urge to bury my face in my hands. I didn't know what to do. I knew that he was right, I _knew_ it. I just… "What if I go to Seattle and decide to take the job?"

"What if you do?" He asked. "Katherine, you'll love him even if you go to Seattle. There is no running from it. There's only… living with it or living without it. And if you choose to live without it, you'll regret it forever."

"Well, what about you and Mum?"

My father shook his head. "You and Sherlock aren't us. Your mum and I, our story ran its course. And I don't regret it. She gave me three wonderful, bright, _beautiful_ children and nearly thirty-six years of happiness. Even though she was never the easiest person in the world to live with, I loved her anyway. And I think that you know you would feel the same about Sherlock; that's why you're so afraid of what comes next."

"I…" All of my excuses had run out. "You're not helping me very much."

He laughed, not perturbed by my poutiness. "Depends on how you look at it."

"I mean, I had this same conversation with Dana earlier this morning and I swore I wasn't in love with him. I _knew_ I wasn't…" I told him quietly. "And now I'm talking to you, and it's almost like… I can't _not_ admit it. I think I fight her because it feels like sometimes she's so desperate to prove me wrong about myself and I couldn't stand it if she was."

"Don't worry about Dana. Don't worry about Sherlock, even. Right now, figure out where you stand. Not where you want to stand, Katherine, but where you do. Figure that out and go from there."

And after all of the talking and the denying and the wishing and the backtracking, I knew. I finally knew where I stood. My dad wouldn't let me hide; I couldn't, not from him. He'd gotten the truth out of me and now I knew what I had felt all this time, but had refused to allow myself to see.

The truth was that I did love Sherlock Holmes. And now that I knew that, I had to figure out what came next. Whether I would make the move to Seattle if I was offered the position at Providence Regional, or whether I would give that up to stay with a mad, consulting detective that had somehow wormed his way into my heart.

I would have everything I needed, but I still wondered if, when the time came, Sherlock would admit to having any kind of feelings for me at all. Friends or otherwise.

But it had to be done. These were the things that I had to say. It wouldn't be hard, I could just take a breath and let it all come tumbling out at once. If he asked questions, though…

"He'll be home any minute now." I found myself saying. "If I'm not there, he'll wonder why." I guess that was my way of saying 'Alright, Dad! Conversation's over. Lovely talk, this. Really. So very helpful,' before I made a mad dash for the front door. I never was able to be blunt with my father. It seemed much too harsh for someone as gentle as him.

But, thankfully, he understood and didn't protest. With a nod, he rose from his seat and walked me to the door. "I love you, darling. Don't forget that. And if you need me… if things don't go the way you want them to, don't forget that I'm here for you. Anytime."

"I love you too, Dad." I said, kissing his cheek. "I'll let you know."

And then, bracing myself for the reality that lay ahead, I left.

* * *

Back at the flat, I was not surprised to see that Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson had arrived before I did. Mrs. Hudson called out a hello as I ascended the stairs, which I returned as cheerily as I could before opening the door to my flat. I already had a notion of what I would find when I stepped in the room. And I was not in any way disappointed.

Sherlock sat in his chair, rosining his bow with long, steady strokes. He hardly looked up when I came in, as if the motion itself had become a part of him.

"Hey." I said, plopping down in the red armchair. "How did the shopping go?"

Sherlock's eyes rolled toward the ceiling before he looked pointedly at me. "Next time, you go."

I laughed softly, "That bad, huh?"

"Boring." He put the rosin down, along with the bow, and leaned forward. "How do people do that? Shopping. So mundane."

"It's _food_, Sherlock." I reminded him. "People have to go to the shop if they want to eat."

"Ah, but you see, I have a theory."

Thinking that this was bound to be more than interesting, I gave him my full attention. Well… I tried to. Halfway through his explanation about the existence of dim sum, I tuned out. My thoughts were wandering again; journeying to far off places; to the realization of how it would feel to walk through the front door and not find him waiting for me.

"So, what do you think?" Sherlock asked, smirking satisfactorily. "_Brilliant_?"

I knew that he was mocking me for blurting out praises whenever I found something he said to be overwhelmingly fascinating, but I smiled anyway.

"Always." I told him.

Wondering for a moment why he suddenly looked so stunned, I decided that this was the moment I should bring up Seattle. It was, really, now or never. If I waited, I would back out of the whole thing and I would regret it. I had to at least try.

"Sherlock…" I began hesitantly. "I, um… there's something we need to talk about. It's about my job."

"Your job?" Interest could be plainly heard in his tone of voice, and apparently he realized this because he picked up his bow again and commenced to rosin it. Keeping his hands busy. Deflecting. "What about it?"

"Dana called the other morning. Mentioned a… possible position in the States. In Seattle, actually." I pretended not to notice how his eyes flicked to mine in alarm and soldiered on. "And I'm thinking I'm going to go and interview for it."

Sherlock was quiet for a long time, obviously trying to figure out what he should say in response to my untimely news. The longer he went without speaking, the more I could feel my nerves beginning to get worked up. My stomach flopped, my palms were sweating, my heart was racing; I was _burning._

"Sherlock?" I was trying so hard to keep the shake out of my voice. "Can you please… what do you think about that? _Anything_?"

"Uh…" The detective shook his head, bringing himself out of his stupor. "Yes. Yes… you should. You should go to the interview."

For some reason, that didn't seem to be the answer I wanted to hear. Suddenly, I wished that he would scowl or yell or tell me not to go, just… anything. Anything to make me stay.

"I should go." I repeated, nodding. I was trying so desperately to keep myself from having a mental breakdown in the middle of the living room, but it didn't seem to be working. I felt so sick. Why was I so _sick_? "Right. I mean, yeah. It's a fantastic opportunity. It's Providence Regional, for God's sake."

Babbling. Shaking. This was not going to end well.

"Right." Sherlock said halfheartedly. "Well… good luck to you, then."

Good luck? He was wishing me _good luck_. What…

"Yep. Thanks." The words found their way out of my mouth, though I didn't know how I managed to say them so calmly. "Um, well, I just wanted to tell you. I don't know if I'll get it, but if I do, I'm going to take it. I think. So, anyway. I'm going over to Seattle for New Year's. If you want to start looking for another flat mate while I'm gone…? That would probably be best."

What. The. Hell. What was I doing?

"Yes, I think so, too." Sherlock answered quietly. "That would be best."

"Good. That's… good."

"Good."

"Right." I said again. "Well, I'm going to finish getting everything in order and then I'm off."

Where I thought I might be going, I had no possible clue. I had two days before I had to be in Seattle; two days that would probably be spent avoiding Sherlock as much as possible. I couldn't handle this. I didn't know what I was getting myself into, or out of, and I just couldn't handle it right now.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock looked up at me, finally, and stopped rosining his bow.

"To see Dana." I lied smoothly, for the first time in my life. "She called. Wants to do dinner. Probably a movie. I'm probably not going to be back until tomorrow afternoon. I have the morning at the clinic."

I thought that finally, I would get more than a mediocre response from him. _Finally_, he would say something. But, he didn't. He nodded… and that was it.

Ready to burst into tears, I made my way to my room and did exactly what I'd told him I would. I finished packing, grabbed my suitcase and coat, and I left.


	15. Chapter 15

_**Hi guys! I have a surprise for you!** **And the magic of surprises is that I can't tell you what it is. But it is, indeed, a type of literary unicorn. Meaning that it may or may not happen again. I'm trying it out. So, make sure to tell me what you think! You'll all know what I'm talking about when you get there. :) **_

_**And thank you, those of you who have followed/favorite and/or reviewed! Specifically, Witty Lady, Lady Gisborne 15, Jess Marilyn, NicBarnes, and AmeliaRoseOswald. You guys have been so supportive of me in your reviews and I always look forward to reading your opinions on my work. Thank you, again! And thank you Ariana for helping me through tough times that I've had to deal with as of late. You are one of the best people and the best friends that I've ever had the honor and the pleasure of knowing and I hope that everything continues to go well with you. You deserve the world! **_

_**Alright guys, here it is! Chapter 15 and your literary unicorn! I hope you enjoy and I hope to read your thoughts in the reviews!**_

_**-lightinside **_

* * *

I was a robot. Moving, moving, moving; never slowing down. My feet hit the pavement of the street below, seeming to yank my body forward in a never ending flurry of movement. One foot in front of the other. Suitcase dragging on uneven wheels behind me. Heart pounding.

I was leaving.

I was going to Seattle now. My mind had been made up… probably from the moment Dana had told me about the job. Probably before then. I'd always thought about leaving England, she had been right about that. I had always dreamed of being different, of having a different life. And now, I was getting my wish.

I just didn't want it anymore.

When I came to the edge of Baker Street, I pulled out my cell phone and kept walking. There was no point in stopping. No point in looking back. There was nothing left for me here. No reason for me to stay.

My fingers managed to find the right numbers on the keypad of my cell, the ones that allowed me to call Dana. That was what I wanted to do; I wanted to talk to my best friend. I needed her to keep me from drowning. I needed her to wake me up.

"Kat?" Dana asked when the line connected. "I'm kind of busy, so I can only talk-"

"I told him." I said frantically. "I told Sherlock about Seattle, D. And I wanted him to make me stay but he didn't and so I packed a suitcase and now I'm walking down…" I glanced up, realizing that I had covered more distance than I had initially thought. "I'll have to catch a cab. I turned the wrong corner."

"Slow down." Dana ordered firmly. "Katherine, just take a breath and start over."

"You heard me." I insisted. "I can't… Where are you? Are you at your mum's?"

"Jon's." She said hesitantly. "Do you need me to meet you…?"

"_Jon's_? What do you mean you're at Jon's? He's seventeen. He doesn't have a flat… does he?" Subconsciously, I steered myself toward the nearest cab, sitting idle by the curb. "Did your brother move out?"

"Yeah." Dana admitted. "He did."

"Why?" I asked, tossing my suitcase in the backseat before I followed after it. "What happened?"

"Dad left. Mum lost it. Jon had enough. I helped him get his own place and he's letting me crash here until I leave for Seattle."

"We." I confirmed, ignoring the way my stomach twisted violently in protest. "Until _we_ leave for Seattle."

"So… you really are going, then?"

"I don't have a choice at this point, Dana. I really don't."

And I didn't. Not anymore. Not after what I'd just done and said. I had to try to make a life for myself, one that didn't involve London or Baker Street… one that didn't involve Sherlock Holmes.

How I was to go about doing that was a mystery to me. I couldn't stop thinking of him; I'd already learned long ago that it was impossible. I couldn't stop looking forward to going back to the flat, ready to see his face after a long day at the clinic. I couldn't stop being furious when he set off the smoke alarms conducting a wild experiment. I couldn't stop smiling when he pouted over something I'd said or done that he had taken the wrong way entirely.

I couldn't _stop_.

And Dana would be of no help to me right now, not when her parents were in the situation they were. Just like mine. Just like the world. So broken; so imperfect. I could tell that she was still in shock, as she wasn't saying very much about it. And whenever Dana couldn't find her words, something was seriously wrong. She had no problem telling me what to do with my life, but when it came to her own, she was hopelessly lost. And I was the same way.

I think everyone is at some point. Lost in the dark; fumbling toward the light; hoping that they haven't lost all sense of direction. But really, we never had a sense of direction in the first place. We are put here on the earth not knowing up from down and wrong from right. We go from taking our first steps to smoking our first cigarette. We look in the mirror at age six or seven and then we blink and we look up and we've turned into someone we don't know.

No choice is going to be fair. No fight is going to be fought without shedding tears or blood. But no one admits that they're hurting. We hide it, hide it so far within ourselves that it becomes strange and unnatural to feel. We choose to keep stumbling; to ignore our mistakes and hope that they'll just disappear like the apparitions that haunt our dreams but vanish with the morning sun.

And we don't admit that it doesn't work. We don't admit that we can't win. But I knew then, hearing the pain in Dana's voice, what I should have done. What I should have resolved to do months ago.

I should have fought anyway, because even if I couldn't win, I could damn well try.

"You do have a choice, Kat… there's always a choice."

"…D?"

"Hmm?"

I bit my lip. "If we need to do the thing where we pretend to talk about me when we're really talking about you, I'm okay with that."

"… How soon can you be here?"

"Fifteen minutes?"

"Just hurry."

Dana gave me the address, which I repeated to the driver before he whisked me away and into the bustling traffic that filled the streets. The entire way to Jon's flat, I wondered what would happen next. Now that I was leaving London, for certain, I knew that everything was going to change… but change how?

Yes, I wouldn't be near my father. I wouldn't walk through my front door and be met by a sulking detective fiddling away with his violin. A lot of things would be different and a lot of things would just stop completely. Thinking of it now, I was almost convinced that I could handle it. But it was the 'almost' that worried me. What would happen when I actually got to Seattle? Would I want to eat my words and go crawling back to London, apologizing the whole way?

That wouldn't happen. I, honestly, didn't have anything much to apologize for. Except for, maybe, the short notice that I'd given everyone. Sherlock in particular. I wouldn't be able to help him with the bills, not if I was going to be paying my share of the rent in the flat… the _apartment_ that I would be splitting with Dana.

My head was reeling. There were too many complications for me to feel comfortable with any aspect of what had steered me toward this decision. But that did not change the fact that what had been done had been done and that there was no going back.

I was _leaving_.

I waited for that to sink in, wondering if I would have such a hard time accepting it once I was on my way to the airport. Dana, too. She acted excited over the whole thing, but it was to the point now where I couldn't help but think that maybe she was just as torn as I was. Maybe she was pushing me to go because she needed a push herself.

I'd known her all my life and there were still times, like now, where she was just as much of a mystery to me as someone I had hardly said three words to. And even though we were going through much of the same things in regard to our families, we really didn't know where to start with any of it. We didn't know how to comfort each other or make any of it better. And I think that was because we knew that we couldn't.

So, we sat together and talked about nothing in particular until we had said everything.

Dana and I had a system. Make a drink, sit down, start talking, down the drink, and repeat. I had a feeling that was what lay in store for me at Jon's. He would most likely stay out of the way and let Dana and I do whatever it was he thought we did when we were on an emotional ledge and I would be grateful.

I noticed the car was slowing down and looked up from the dirty carpet of the cab. I saw Dana, standing out on the stoop, clad in pajamas and a coat as she waited for me. She was probably freezing.

One hand instinctively grabbed my suitcase and dragged it out of the car behind me, not caring when it scraped over the concrete fabric first as I dashed for my best friend. Dana hugged me quickly and then motioned for me to pick up my belongings.

"Okay, let's save the reunion for inside." She ushered. "I'm freezing my ass off."

"Obviously, stupid." I rolled my eyes. "What did you think would happen? Standing outside in subzero temperatures."

"It's _hardly_ that cold." Dana protested. "And you said you were close."

"Fifteen minutes is not that close."

"Well, I told you to hurry!"

We walked up to Jon's apartment, pretending to bicker as we walked up several flights of stairs so that we wouldn't have to address our real problems until we had a substantial amount of alcohol in front of us. And so, putting Sherlock out of my mind, I followed Dana over the threshold and shut the door behind me.

* * *

**0o0o0o0 SHERLOCK 0o0o0o0**

I watched after her from the window, even after she was out of sight. Took a suitcase. Not coming back. But she'd said that she was going to visit her friend… Dana, I thought. Why would she take a suitcase? Okay, so _definitely_ not coming back. _Why_?

I thought back to her behavior before she'd gone to back. Babbling. Fidgeting. Refusing to meet my eye.

Katherine was obviously hiding something. But for the life of me, I couldn't figure it out. Maybe it was leftover nerves; the anticipation of telling me about her job. So irritating, really. Didn't help that I had to look for someone to replace her now, too.

I sighed. First, it had been John and now it was Katherine. John had decided to enlist again, as I suspected he would, due to that phase he'd been in – telling me he didn't feel useful. That he needed to go somewhere he would be appreciated. And I didn't really think to tell him that he was because it was always my belief that he knew. He should have known. He was doctor. He helped people every day, all day, when he didn't have to. He could have been a _mechanic_, but no. John had chosen to be a doctor. An _army_ doctor.

And then he'd left and had never come back.

And now Katherine was leaving…

Katherine was leaving.

The gravity of our situation was really starting to sink in now. (Should have already done that. John always said I was too thick.) And it was the same thing Mycroft had warned me of. She cared too much, I knew she did, and it was wrong.

It was wrong because it was me. Why did she care about _me_?

"Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson was standing in the doorway, looking at me worriedly. "What was all that about? The suitcase."

"She's going somewhere." I told her, beginning to shuffle the sheet music around that Katherine had left in too neat piles on the coffee table.

Too neat and too much like her.

Mrs. Hudson sighed, but didn't say anything else. She was giving me that look. That _pity_ look. I hated it when she did that, like she was insinuating that it mattered. But it didn't. I didn't care. Katherine could do what she wanted.

_Not true._

"Shut up." I muttered.

"I didn't say anything, dear."

She hadn't. John had. "Me – thinking too much." I offered, hoping that she would buy it. Of course she would. She always did. Always had.

Didn't matter.

_You're in denial._

"Shut _up_!" I hissed to no one in particular.

Before my landlady could ask questions, I made a grab for the slim neck of my violin and picked up the bow that accompanied it. If I acted like she was bothering me, she would leave. So, why wasn't she leaving? I started to rosin my bow, staring down at the white powder that was deposited on the loosening strings.

Glanced up toward the door. Still there.

Why wasn't she _leaving_?

Aggravated now, I crossed my arms as best as I could. "Why are you still here?"

"It's not your fault." Mrs. Hudson murmured gently. "None of it. Not John and not Katherine. It's not you."

But it was.

I rolled my eyes, but there was no confidence in the motion. It was hollow. Just like me. "Have you been smoking something?"

"Oh, Sherlock." She sighed sadly. "_Sherlock_…"

Do not engage. Do _not_ engage. Didn't matter. Won't matter. _She _doesn't matter. And it was probably just as well. There was a storm coming; an east wind. I didn't want her to be here for that.

She was safe.

And I was miserable.


	16. Chapter 16

_**Hi guys! Thank you all for your reviews! I have to make this quick because I've got a mountain of work to do and not enough time to do it in so, getting to the point, I hope you all enjoy chapter 16 and I look forward to reading your reviews!**_

_**Aaand there may or may not be uncharacteristic fluff in this chapter *cough*. **_

_**-lightinside**_

* * *

_**{Chapter 16 Mini-List}**_

_**Complicated - Avril Lavigne**_

_**I've Told You Now - Sam Smith**_

_**The One That Got Away - The Civil Wars**_

* * *

**0o0o0o0 KATHERINE 0o0o0o0**

It was the day of my departure for Seattle. Officially, I had gone three days without seeing or speaking to Sherlock. And I should have been proud of myself. I should have been relieved to know that it was possible. But I wasn't because even though I hadn't talked to him… I wished I could.

Well… I could. But I wasn't going to. I was leaving. What would even be the point?

"Kat, have you got everything?" Dana called to me from the bathroom where she was packing the last of her many odorous hair products. "Your purse, keys, phone…?"

My cheeks began to burn. I kept waiting for Sherlock to call, to text, to do _something_. But it was like trying to get the earth to stop tilting on its axis. Impossible. So, I shoved my phone in my pocket and pretended like I hadn't been pathetically obsessing over my empty inbox and cleared my throat.

"Got 'em." I called back. "Are you almost ready? Our flight leaves in an hour!"

"I _know_! I swear, I'm almost done."

Sighing, I plopped down on the leather couch that sat in the living room with one hand still holding on to my suitcase. I didn't know what I was feeling, really. Just that I was on the verge of going postal and probably would the second I sat down on the plane.

I hated heights. I hated planes. I hated the irritating passengers that you always wound up sitting next to; the ones that complain about everything from turbulence to the temperature of the peanuts that they ask for when they realize how much they're charged for mini-bottles of alcohol.

And, me? Today, cost be damned, I was going to be floating on a cloud (literally and figuratively) if they expected me to sit through a nine and a half hour flight. After a few more minutes of waiting and wondering if we were _ever _going to get out of the flat in time to catch our plane, Dana emerged from her room. With her were two suitcases, her purse, and a large duffle bag that I assumed held her laptop and her favorite tabloids.

"Do you have anything that we might get stopped for?"

"Like what?"

"Large containers? Perfume? Anything like that?"

"Perfume is a basic human right." She protested. "How do they expect me to go out and face people without my Marc Jacobs?"

"Leave it." I said. "I'll help you buy more when we get to Seattle. It's better for your perfume to be under Jon's sink than in the trash bin at Heathrow Airport."

"Fine." Dana muttered resentfully. "Give me two more minutes."

I watched her turn the corner to go back to the bathroom to empty some of her belongings back into her designated space under the sink and then, when I knew it was safe, I pulled out my phone again.

No messages.

_Shit_.

I could text him, right? I could just let him know that I was on my way out of town… that wouldn't hurt anything…

_No. No, Katherine, pull it together. You left. That's not fair. _

But what did I leave? I left my flatmate. A friend. Not a _boy_friend… so it really wasn't a matter of being fair. I had given him notice and told him what I planned to do. Sure, I loved him, but he didn't feel the same way. He didn't care. I was waiting for _nothing_.

Right as I began to slip my phone back in my pocket, it buzzed. For a second, my heart stopped. And then it picked up the pace double time, right in step with the way my skin seemed to pulse the longer I went without breathing. Hardly daring to hope, I peeked at the screen.

**1 NEW MESSAGE**

Should I look at it? It could be my Dad. Or my Mum. I should look at it. It's only right that I check it and make sure that everyone is alright. But what if it was Sherlock? …I should still look at it.

I unlocked the screen, thumb hovering over the notification for only a few seconds longer. Somehow, I found the courage to click on it.

**Hi, darling. Have something for you. Meet you at the airport in twenty. – J**

I released the breath I had been holding and closed my eyes. Disappointment was seeping out of every pore on my body. It was my dad. Not Sherlock. My _dad_.

"Ready?"

Dana's voice startled me to the point that I dropped my phone. I recovered quickly, snatching it up and shoving it in my pocket before she could start asking questions. A smile somehow found its way on my lips, one that I thought was reassuring but was obviously fake.

"Absolutely."

I could see that Dana was dying to say something. To call me out. But I was determined not to let her.

"Let's go, D." I hurried her out the door in front of me, snatching her keys away so that I could lock the door behind us. "We're already late enough."

"We have plenty of time."

"Not really. We're meeting my dad at the airport." I told her as I handed back her keys. "In less than twenty minutes actually. He says he has something for me."

Dana raised an eyebrow. "I thought you already said goodbye to your parents?"

"Yeah, yesterday. So?"

"_So_, isn't it a little suspicious to you at all that your dad is dropping by the airport, which is a good half hour out of his way, just to bring you something? I mean, couldn't he mail it?"

"I guess he could." I murmured. "I dunno. I mean, I'd like to see him again before I leave. And it could be important."

"Could be." Dana agreed quietly. "I wonder what he's bringing you."

"Me, too."

Our musings didn't help me reach a conclusion, however. I still had no idea what it was that my father deemed so important that he would bring it to Heathrow airport. Dana was right, though. He could mail it. So if he didn't feel like he could, then what _was_ it?

Dana paid the driver while I unloaded our bags so that we could go through security and get our bags checked before we found our terminal. The airplane ticket felt like it was burning a hole through my pocket. It might as well have been on fire, as I was so acutely aware of its existence in those few moments leading up to our departure that I thought it would be nothing but ashes when I tried to present it to the gate agent.

"Have you heard from him yet?" Dana asked as we sat down to wait for our boarding call. "He should be here by now, right?"

"I don't know." I told her and then took out my phone. "Let me go and call him. I'll be right back."

I stood up from the seat I had taken less than ten seconds before and walked toward the windows that showed the tarmac. I would be on that plane in less than fifteen minutes. Bile rose in my throat. Oh my god, I couldn't _do _this.

"Katherine?"

I turned around, ending the phone call to my father the moment I heard his voice. But I was _not _prepared for who stood beside him.

"_Sherlock_?"

My dad cleared his throat. "I thought that since you two didn't exactly say your goodbyes properly, that you could say them now."

"Didn't have much of a choice." Sherlock muttered, seeming to me as if he was a little more than slightly irritated.

I ignored him. "Dad, you should have told me."

"You needed a push. _Both_ of you." He replied, shooting Sherlock a look that I knew all too well. It was the one that screamed 'behave'. The one I'd been subject to all my life.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Dana stand from her seat, wide-eyed. I supposed that she hadn't known the 'something' my dad had to bring me was actually a person. _Sherlock_.

"Well?" My father asked, raising an eyebrow. "Off you go then. Go have a talk. A _real_ one, like the two adults that I know you both are."

"_Dad_ –"

"_Katherine_."

That was it. One word, full of warning, was what spurred me into action. I looked at Sherlock and tilted my head to the side before walking toward the windows. My dad stayed put for a moment, making sure that we were going to do as he said, before he wandered over to Dana's side. I didn't think they would end up talking much. I could still see Dana staring at us from across the room, peering over the crowds that meandered in and out of the terminal.

Sherlock and I stood for a moment, looking at each other and then at the ground and then back again. It was awkward, humiliating, and it was becoming harder and harder with each minute that passed for me to open my mouth and say something.

"Uh…" I began slowly, testing the waters before I dove in. "I'm… glad you came."

His curls bobbed for a few seconds as he nodded before they settled back down again. More silence. Was he going to _say_ anything?

Just when I was giving up, he opened his mouth. And then closed it. And then opened it. And then he sighed.

"I don't want another flat mate." He admitted, shuffling his feet a little to divert my attention away from his face. "I probably should have said that sooner."

"Maybe…"

When I saw him smile, obviously uncomfortable with the way our conversation was heading, I couldn't help but relax.

"When does your flight leave?"

"Not long. Another five minutes, I suppose."

"Oh."

I glanced back over my shoulder at my father and Dana who waved at me frantically. She was saying something, but I couldn't hear it. I could only assume that it was time to board. But I needed more time. So, I pretended like I hadn't noticed and turned back to Sherlock.

"Tell me something." I said. "The day you met my brother, you told him his limp was psychosomatic. Were you right?"

Sherlock's eyebrows crinkled, the only sign that he was confused. "How did you –"

"Were you right?"

"Yes." He said. "I was."

"Now tell me something else. Do you remember the night I asked you not to make me into one of your cases?"

"That was ages ago."

I bit my tongue to keep from panicking. I was running out of time. I had to hurry. "Sherlock, answer the question."

"Yes." Sherlock admitted, clearing his throat. "I remember."

"Well… I changed my mind." I took a deep breath and took a step toward him. I was suddenly feeling very brave; I could look him in the eye and not feel like I was going to combust. And I even found that I could smile as I finished my request. "Deduce me."

"Kat, we have to _go_!" Dana was moving swiftly toward us, having left my father watching our bags.

"Do you see?" I asked him, trying to push Dana and Seattle from my mind.

If I didn't know any better, I would have said that Sherlock seemed happier. More hopeful. And I suppose that I was, too. "Yes."

"Okay." I breathed. "Good. Just…"

"_KAT_!"

"Coming!" I called and then turned back to Sherlock. Without waiting another second, I reached up on my tiptoes and wrapped my arms around his neck in a tight hug. For a minute, he froze and I started to panic. Things would get so much more awkward if he just stood there.

But then, he moved. His arms wound around me, returning my embrace. Granted, it wasn't as clingy as mine, but it was _something_. It was then that Dana stopped walking. I could almost feel her debating on whether or not she should continue on in her mission to retrieve me. And I guess she decided not to, as there was no further interruption.

After another minute or so, I let go of Sherlock and took a step back, fixing his coat collar back the way he liked it as I did so.

"Be careful." I told him. "Try not to burn the flat down before I get back."

"You're…"

I nodded, trying to downplay my newfound enthusiasm. "I'm coming back. I won't know about the job for a while. I should be back in town January 15."

"Still leaving?"

When I realized that he actually _hadn't_ been asking about my return, my heart sunk. He didn't want me to go. _I _didn't want me to go. I wanted to stay right here, confess everything, and walk off into the crowd with Sherlock holding my hand as the credits rolled at the end of a really cliché romance film. But I _wanted_ the cliché ending.

"Yeah." I had to force myself to say the words. Every single one of them felt like a knife to the stomach. "I have to. They're expecting me in Seattle in two days."

"Right." Sherlock murmured. "Of course."

"I'm sorry."

"No, you should go." He said softly. "If they're expecting you."

"They are."

Awkwardly, Sherlock glanced up and over at Dana. "Someone wants you."

I didn't want to look. I didn't want to leave him here. I wanted to ignore the fact that Dana was even behind us… ignore _everyone_, really, until I had said everything I needed to. However, I knew undoubtedly that it wasn't going to happen. I was never that lucky.

"She can wait a minute more." I protested quietly, trying to get him to focus on me again. "Sherlock…"

"Go." Sherlock said. "Before you miss your flight."

"Sherlock…"

And suddenly, I lost my words. I was frozen in place, heart hammering against my ribcage, as Sherlock leaned forward with his head hung, hand cupping the back of my neck to pull me a little closer, and placed a gentle kiss on the top of my head.

Just as quickly as it had happened, the moment that we had shared was over. Sherlock released me and resumed being the distant, calculating detective that I had grown to know so well over time. The sudden absence of him was enough to send me into a panicked frenzy.

"Go, Katherine." He repeated, glancing toward Dana. "It's time."

Time. The thing that I never seemed to have enough of.

I managed to tear my eyes away from Sherlock and focus my gaze on Dana, who was still slightly stunned, but also growing increasingly impatient.

"We have to go." She said, closing the gap between the three of us. "If we wait much longer, we won't be able to board."

"Give me one more minute." I hoped that I didn't sound too much like I was begging. Even though I actually was.

"Hurry, Kat." Dana sighed and stepped back far enough that Sherlock and I could finish our conversation without being overheard.

Thankful, I took another deep breath and turned back to Sherlock. "I was serious, you know. About burning the flat down. And… don't do anything irrational." I realized how motherly I sounded and began to grin. "And don't talk to strangers."

Sherlock's lips curled up in a teasing smirk. "Can't make any promises."

And even though he couldn't, I wished that he would. But I realized that there wasn't much more to say. I took a deep breath and held it in for a moment before letting it out and glancing over my shoulder at Dana yet again. She stabbed her finger at the terminal and then pointed at her watch. I was really beginning to try her patience.

"I'll see you as soon as I get back, okay?"

Sherlock tried not to smile. "You've said that already, Katherine."

"I know… I… have to go."

"I know."

Hesitating for only another moment, I sighed and began to walk away. I didn't think I needed to say anything. Or that I had anything left to say. And I certainly didn't want to hear the one word I knew was coming, whether it escaped from the confines of my own mouth or from his.

"Katherine!"

Bracing myself, I turned to look at him.

"Goodbye."

There was something so very final about the way he said it that I couldn't say anything back. So, I forced a smile on my face even though I felt more than nauseated and I kept walking. It took everything I had to keep my eyes focused on the ground that was ahead of me; to keep myself from stopping and looking back. But I knew that if I did, I wouldn't get on the plane. And I _had_ to get on the plane.

So I handed in my ticket, made sure Dana was behind me, and I did what I had gone there to do.

I got on the plane.


	17. Chapter 17

_**EXTREMELY IMPORTANT:**_

_**Guys! I'm really sorry I didn't update on Saturday (whoops), my family came into town and I've been visiting with them. Anyway! Ariana (Lady Gisborne 15) and I have finally put up the first chapter of 'Only Human' our first collaboration together for BBC's Sherlock! It's under our account that we will be using for more collaborations in the future - BeautyWithinTheBeasts. I AM SO EXCITED! *cough* Excuse my exuberance. I really, really, really, really, REALLY hope you guys will check it out. We're hoping to see some familiar faces. And you all have been such a wonderful support system for me, it's just unreal. Thank you so much. **_

_**Once again, I'm sorry for not updating sooner. I hope you enjoy chapter 17! **_

_**-lightinside**_

* * *

**0o0o0o0 Two Weeks Later 0o0o0o0**

"You're telling me that you _still_ have not heard one word from him?" Dana asked from her seat on the couch, hair still dripping from a shower.

The 'him' being referred to was, of course, Sherlock. And while Dana's attitude about the whole thing was appreciated and pretty much reflected my own, I still somehow felt the need to defend him.

"It doesn't matter, D. He's obviously busy."

"He's on _telly_, Katherine!" Dana cried, stabbing a finger at the television screen. And it was true. There he was, on the front stoop of our (well, his) flat, wearing that stupid plaid hat that I always found attractive. "And if he can find time to look pretty for a camera, he can certainly find the time to call _you_."

I sighed and resumed reading my book, trying not to look at Sherlock or the captions that ran along the bottom of the screen, singing his praises. And even though I was a little disheartened, I knew something Dana didn't.

I hadn't contacted Sherlock either.

"Can you just turn it off?"

Dana huffed and made a grab for the remote, clicking the telly off a little more violently than was necessary. "Fine. Sit in the apartment all weekend. Pretend like you don't want to talk to him. _Fine_."

Knowing I would regret it, I sighed and closed my book. "Might I ask why you're so _pissed_ all of a sudden? Ten minutes ago, you were fine."

And that did it. "You know, why am I the only one out of the two of us who actually gives a shit about your happiness? You prefer to be alone. You prefer to be _miserable_. Why is that, Katherine? Can you tell me that?"

"I don't prefer to be-"

"_Don't_, Kat. Do _not_ try to feed me that crap anymore. It's a lie! I know it and whether you want to admit it or not, so do you."

"Dana, for the last time, _stay out of it_." I ordered loudly, no longer in the mood to take any more of this. "If we're going to be flatmates or roomates or whatever the hell it is that they call it here, I'm drawing a line. No more commenting about Sherlock Holmes or my well known and _acknowledged_ emotional insecurities or I will pack my bags and move out! He can do whatever he bloody wants, so long as it doesn't involve arson, robbery, murder, or fabrication, and I'll be glad for him! Got it?"

Dana finally relented with a mumbled agreement and a glare, but I was too wound up to go back to my reading. I tossed the book down on the coffee table with sudden distaste and rose from my seat.

"I'm going out."

"Where?"

"_Out_!"

Within seconds, I was out of the flat. Having no idea where to go, I just started to walk. I did miss Sherlock, tremendously. But he seemed to be doing fine without me; having taken a case that was obviously well known by the public even here in America. Reichenbach, they called it. Peculiar name, but it would help Sherlock expand his business. I knew that he would like that, whether he would admit it or not; helping more people.

Or being able to show off in front of them.

The thought of it made me laugh aloud, though I quickly stopped. I really wanted to call him… I _really_ did. But enough time had passed now that I didn't feel like I had to hear his voice to get through the day and I needed that. I needed to feel free to live a life away from Sherlock without feeling like my lungs were on fire.

I didn't see how it could get any worse; the depth of my feelings for him and the repercussions they created throughout my life. But I also didn't see it getting any better, either. I knew that they wouldn't go away. My feelings would always be the same as long as Sherlock was breathing. And I knew that he had a long, long life ahead of him. So, I had to face it; to suck it up and keep moving forward.

I would be going home in a few days, that part was relieving. No more Dana for another few weeks. My interview had gone well… much better than expected. So well, in fact, that they had offered me the job. Whether or not I would accept was yet to be determined, but the board needed a decision by January 20th.

So, I could venture over to Baker Street, speak to Sherlock, and figure things out from there. If he had time for me…

And it was then that I realized how bothered I was that he hadn't called. And how angry at myself I was because I hadn't called him either. Forget breathing. Forget independence. I needed to talk to him and I needed to talk to him _now_. I didn't care about the difference in our time zones. He never slept anyway.

I dug my phone out of my bag and thumbed through my contact list until I found Sherlock's name and clicked on it. But then, it was time for me to type out my message. It was time for me to tell him that I missed him. To tell him that I would be home soon.

And all I could say was:

**Hey.**

It was only after I pressed _Send_ that I regretted my choice to contact him. Dammit. Out of all the things I could have said, I chose 'hey'. The most generic and uninteresting word in the English language. Sure, it started conversations. But Sherlock was not exactly a conversationalist.

**Saw you on the telly. Hope you're doing alright. **

There. Fixed. He knew that I was thinking about him, but he wasn't actually required to answer. I would almost prefer him not, especially now. Whatever he said was bound to be awkward and would no doubt make me feel more homesick than I already did.

Just as I was slipping my phone back in my bag, it buzzed. With bated breath, I peeked at the screen. Dana.

Shit.

**Don't walk too long. New Year's party tonight. –D**

I fought back a groan. I had totally forgotten about the _stupid_ New Year's bash that Dana had tied us both to. Some girl that Dana worked with had invited her and Dana had dropped my name and was told to 'bring me along', to which she responded with the promise that she would. And I had complained and groaned and moaned and begged and pleaded, but Dana refused to go alone and she told me that she absolutely would not be spending New Year's with me eating my 'pity chocolate' and watching _An Affair to Remember_, as was my custom.

I didn't know whether to be grateful or to simply accept my punishment for being such a sorry flatmate and go without another word of protest. I hadn't been a good sport about the flat sharing. But who could blame me? I was used to a moody, mostly sulky, and childish consulting detective who almost never slept and rarely spoke three words to me. Of course, that had lessened over time, but the original patterns were still there.

Dana was a different story. We'd had our first real fight when she'd brought a guy home with her at the end of our first week in Seattle. I, indignant and still half asleep, promptly kicked him out on the stoop and slammed the door behind him before storming back to my room to resume snoring. Dana wasn't too thrilled with me for getting in the way of her 'one, blissful night', but I didn't care.

I didn't know what made me so angry, but I realized finally that it was because it wouldn't have happened had I been with Sherlock. He never would have brought a girl home while I was there, one room away. He just… wasn't that person. And the more I came to know him, I knew that he would never be that inconsiderate. Not intentionally. There were times…

Well. There were times. But everyone had those times. With Dana, however, I found it harder to excuse because it was becoming normal. I understood that she had formed this habit when she lived alone and that was fine. But the fact was that she _didn't_ live alone anymore and I didn't want strangers creeping around the flat in the middle of the night while I slept.

Our _second_ fight happened when she had taken to comparing everyone to Sherlock. Trying to set me up _already_, with us not even two full weeks into our trip. She would meet some guy at work, pump him for information by batting her insanely long eyelashes, and return to me with his life story. I had no interest in dating, not if it wasn't Sherlock. And I knew that wouldn't happen for what I suspected would be a very long time.

But when Dana was relating these stories to me, she would begin to throw Sherlock's name in the mix and say things like;

"He seems so calm. So normal. Sherlock was always so strange… I don't know how you put up with him for so long."

And while I found this very hypocritical, considering she was one of the only people who had encouraged me to confess my feelings to Sherlock, I also found that it made me fantasize about what it would be like to slap a piece of duct tape over Dana's mouth. That was the other thing; the girl _could not shut up_.

I didn't understand how she could always find something to talk about. I was _happy _to sit in silence. I didn't care. I didn't even really notice it that much anymore. But Dana was of the mindset that all silences are awkward and acted upon her belief by using an incalculable amount of oxygen to berate me for not getting out more or for taking so long to give the board an answer about the job they had offered me.

The only relief I had was when Dana finally drifted off to sleep. That, or when I stormed out and went for a very, _very_ long walk, as I was in the process of doing.

We had been best friends all my life, Dana and I, but I was quickly finding out that though I loved her dearly, I could not live with her.

Sighing, I turned around at the street corner and began to make my way back to the flat. If I was expected to go to this party, I supposed that I had to start making myself look halfway decent. I pulled out my phone one last time and typed a message back to Dana.

**On my way.**

* * *

Several hours later, I stood by the door awaiting Dana and wishing that I had an invisibility cloak. I could have sneaked away long before now, but I feared that the moment Dana heard the door open, it would give her something else to pick at me about. And I was just too tired of fighting to even think about the possibility of hearing her yell at me _one_ more time. However, this was getting ridiculous.

Exasperated with my own impatience, I sucked in a long breath and yelled; "_Dana_!"

"I'm coming!"

With a resentful eye roll, I glanced down at my dress. Red, strapless, not quite floor-length… I found myself wondering if Sherlock would have liked it. But I knew one thing for certain; these black heels were going to kill me.

For some reason, I never learned. I should have worn the same dress I wore to the dinner party I had thrown only several weeks before. That way, I could have hidden my feet and worn flats or sneakers or something. But, no.

Before I could return to fantasizing about my escape from the New Year's party, Dana came rushing down the hall. Of course, she looked picture perfect. She never left the house if there was even the tiniest strand of hair out of place.

"Ready?" She asked me, much too chipper in my opinion.

"Not really." I muttered, wrenching the door open. "But I'm here, so let's go."

We left then, both of us discontented and silent as we strolled off to find a cab. When we had achieved our goal and were riding toward wherever this party took place – I didn't care enough to find out – Dana finally sighed.

"I'm sorry."

I didn't want to engage. I really didn't. It seemed so stupid, all of this fighting. I was sick of it and I knew she had to be, too. "S'okay." I muttered, trying not to get _too_ invested in the conversation. I tended to let everything spill out at once if I was in the right mood.

"No, it's not. I mean… I'm an asshole, okay? I am. I know that's what you've been thinking ever since you moved in, and you're right, but I just… Kat, I don't want you to be alone, okay? All the guys I try to set you up with? It's because I care. And yeah, I'm insensitive and rude and a bit of a bitch, but you're my best friend. There has to be a reason for that, right?"

When Dana finally paused to take a breath, I was left speechless. She was apologizing, _really_ apologizing. And it was exactly what I needed to hear.

"You're not a bitch." I told her. "… Not completely."

Dana fought back a smile, knowing she was on her way to being forgiven. "_Really_?"

Seeing the sarcastically hopeful look on her face, I snorted. "Shut up, D. I'm still mad at you. Kind of."

"_Kind of_." She poked my arm. "So you _do_ still love me?"

"I don't know if you've noticed..." I pushed her hand away, grinning stupidly. "But you're not my type."

Dana began laughing and I was suddenly very relieved. Even though I knew that things like this, _fights_ like this, would happen again and again, this one was over. Everything was okay for now and that was good enough for me.

* * *

The party was terrible. Not terrible in a boring way, but terrible in a way that reminded me with every second I was there of how painfully single I was. Dana was off dancing with Brad Something-Or-Other, who I had learned nothing of other than the fact that he was tall, blonde, and flirtatious. And I, on the other hand, was loitering awkwardly in a corner, wishing that I had the motivation to peel myself away from the wall and make conversation with someone.

It would have been fun, I guessed, if I had been here with someone other than Dana. Someone whose name started with an 'S' and ended with Sherlock Holmes. But if I had been with him, we wouldn't have been here. He hadn't the taste for parties, so he told me. I wondered sometimes if that had been true. I wondered if I ever had the chance to get him out of the house, if he would smile and engage or just sulk. Sulking was more his style.

Curious, I checked the watch on my left wrist and sighed. It was 11:47. Soon it would be midnight and everyone would be hugging and cheering and I was sure that there would be a lot of kissing involved. And I would have no one to kiss.

I should have stayed home. I could practically hear my old habits screaming my name, reprimanding me for abandoning them. I could always fake an illness on Valentine's Day and make it up to myself.

Or…

To hell with it. I pushed away from the wall and meandered over to the sea of bodies, engaged in various types of dancing. When I finally pushed through to Dana, she had already spotted me and was waiting with an arched and quite judgmental eyebrow.

"Don't tell me you're going home."

"M'not feeling so well." I lied. "I'll see you later, right?"

Dana glanced over at Brad What's-His-Name and raised an eyebrow before turning back to me. "Probably."

"Not." I sighed, rolling my eyes. "Look, just keep _it_ out of our flat, okay?"

My friend nodded and I took that as my cue to leave. I was more than happy to, really. I was sad and alone and I honestly didn't belong at a _party_. Not feeling like I was. So, I left. It was now 11:55 and the streets were full of people; walking, laughing – totally and blissfully happy. I, being the bitter hag that I was, felt disgusted for several moments. How in the world could everything be so… _bright_?

It wasn't the fact that people were happy that put me off, it was the fact that I couldn't be happy with them. And I wanted to. So badly.

11:58.

I stopped walking. I wasn't going to make it to a cab before the ball dropped.

11:59.

Leaning against the nearest lamppost, I looked up at the sky. It was starry tonight, almost peaceful. The New Year would be ushered in in less than a minute.

And then, something pulled me out of my pity induced stupor. A text. I pulled my mobile out of my clutch and glanced at the screen.

**1 NEW MESSAGE**

Probably my dad. Sighing yet again, I clicked on it. And I suddenly felt violently ill in the best way possible.

**Happy New Year. –SH**

The selfish part of me wanted to put my phone away and pretend like nothing had happened. But the part of me that was elated, the less sensible and more romantic part of me, wanted to call him immediately and return the sentiment. Heart squeezing and stomach somersaulting, I began to reply. Or I would have, had not a second text come immediately afterward.

**Come home. –SH **

Home. To Sherlock. To Baker Street. To London. _Home_. He missed me, which was clear. And everyone who knew me knew that I missed him more than I could stand. This job… I didn't need it. Not that badly. The clinic was fine; paid the bills, made me happy. So… why not? Why shouldn't I go home?

And so, feeling electric and alive along with every other hopeful soul in the city, I sent him a reply.

**Soon.**


	18. Chapter 18

**_So... ehehe... hi guys. Um... this chapter is going to be a little shorter because of some things that will transpire in the chapter following this one. Yeah. I really didn't want to do this, but I kept thinking about it and thinking about it and found myself writing it and by the time I actually realized where I was headed, I'd written too much to erase. I'm going to shut up now just in case I haven't given everything away yet. _**

_**Anyway! Thank you Littlebirdd, Jess Marilyn, theladyofthelost, Lady Gisborne 15, and Witty Lady for reviewing on chapter seventeen! I hope you all enjoy this chapter and end up not hating me for where I left it... **_

_**-lightinside**_

_**(Note: The last song on the list below is really for the next chapter, but I wanted to include it in this list.)**_

* * *

**{Chapter 18 Mini-List}**

**Come Home - OneRepublic**

**The Light - The Album Leaf**

**The Way It Ends - Landon Pigg**

* * *

"You're almost there, yeah?" Dana asked distractedly, fiddling with something while she talked to me on the phone.

I couldn't keep the smile off of my face. I was back in London; I was home. And I was on my way to Baker Street to see the one person I had been dying to see all along.

"Yeah." I answered cheerily. "Don't get into too much trouble while I'm gone."

"About that." She began hesitantly, "Are you even coming back? I mean, I know you said you were before you left… but you took _all _of your stuff with you. I know you didn't bring much to begin with, but still. It's all highly suspect."

"We'll see. I was happy here, with the clinic. I didn't… really know how content I was or had been until I left. A lot of things have happened to me this year, y'know. And it's just… I don't know. I don't need to escape from it anymore. Not completely."

"So…"

"_We'll see_." I repeated firmly. "Just… give me a week. One week. Alright? I'll get some of the homesickness out of my system and I'll be able to weigh all my options. Okay?"

"Alright." Dana conceded. "Be safe. Have fun. Don't do anything I wouldn't. Like snog the neighbors' cat. I would never do that."

I laughed heartily, glad to be out of my emotional rut and be feeling almost normal again. "No snogging for me."

"Unless it's Sherlock." The suggestion was plain. "You could definitely snog Sherlock."

My face fell with exasperation. There was no limit to Dana's childishness and I didn't mind that, other than the fact that my skin was now burning and I could hardly speak.

I managed to sound almost irritated when I finally found my voice. "I'm hanging up now."

Dana just laughed. "Oh, you _so _want to."

"_Bye_!"

I hung up, still aflame at the thought of Dana's PG suggestion that I had somehow managed to turn dirty within the confines of my own mind. Shaking my head, I glanced around at the outside world, realizing that I was indeed almost home. It was the twentieth of January, exactly twenty days since Sherlock had asked me to come back. And I didn't think that he would have changed his mind in such a short amount of time. So, I decided to be brave and assume that he would welcome me. I hadn't exactly called and told him. I'd told Mrs. Hudson that I was coming, however, and she had been elated.

And when the cab pulled up alongside the curb outside of 221B, I pushed down my fear and retrieved my suitcases from the boot before going up and knocking on the door. I'd given my key back when I left the first time, not thinking that I would be back so soon. Of course, that was before the airport and before Sherlock's plea at New Year's. Back when I had made up my mind to ignore everything and just run away.

Looking up while I waited for someone to come to the door, I saw the upstairs curtain swish like someone had been watching. My stomach lurched, under siege by vindictive and violent butterflies. Damn. I hadn't even seen his face yet and I was already being suffocated by the attachment I had to him.

Hardly any time passed at all before the front door was wrenched open. And the person standing there was _not_ Mrs. Hudson.

Sherlock, though calm and collected, was looking at me in a way that allowed me to see the shock and surprise that was registering in his mind. "Hi." He said softly, still lingering in the doorway.

I couldn't keep the smile off of my face. "Hi."

He seemed confused for a moment before I saw something similar to gratitude replace whatever else he might have been feeling before that moment. "You…"

"Came home." I answered. "Yeah, I did."

"It's been..." Sherlock's words seemed to be failing him for the first time ever since I'd known him. And even though it did worry me a little, I still couldn't stop smiling. "A long time. A month?"

"A month and a week." I blurted and then cleared my throat. "But… y'know. Who's counting, right?"

"Right."

Several long seconds passed before he seemed to remember that I was standing on the front stoop and he was the one blocking my way into the flat.

"Can I…?" He motioned to my suitcases before looking back up at me for an answer.

Before I had enough time to keel over from the sheer shock of hearing him _offer_ to be helpful, Sherlock seemed to interpret my silence as tacit compliance and picked up my bags before ushering me inside and out of the cold.

He took the stairs two at a time, even though he was carrying my bags, and only looked after me once he was at the very top of the stairwell. I hadn't moved an inch.

"Did I do something wrong?" Sherlock's voice sounded stressed, like he was suddenly worried I was going to scold him for some imagined wrong he had committed in the last five minutes. "I didn't mean—"

"_Sherlock_." I finally laughed, and it was genuine even if it did sound a little breathless. He was actually being kind. That was something I had never dreamed of seeing from him ever in my life. "Everything's fine. I just… I missed you."

Sherlock hesitated for a moment, but I could swear I thought I saw the beginnings of a smile play across his lips before he gestured for me to come up, which I did immediately. I didn't expect a hug and I didn't expect to talk about any of what we'd discovered about one another the day I'd left for Seattle. Everything was good now; Sherlock wasn't off pouting or plucking sulkily at the strings of his violin. And since he was in such a good mood, I was happy to let him carry on as he was.

I didn't want to bring up anything that might send him into a sudden downward spiral. Or me, for that matter. There was no knowing what would happen now that I was back. Whether this unseen and completely new side of Sherlock would be replaced by the brooding detective that I had left behind, or whether he would stay the way he was in this moment, remained to be seen.

And while I was enjoying myself immensely, watching him put on the kettle and busy himself making sure that everything was just so, it also made me suspicious.

"Are you alright?" I asked suddenly. "I mean… nothing's happened while I've been gone, right? Nothing bad?"

Sherlock blinked several times before turning his attention back to the whistling kettle. "Do you still like your tea the same way? Or has that changed?"

Sighing, I stood from the couch and crossed my arms. "First of all, you never bothered to ever _ask_ me how I liked my tea. And second of all, you're changing the subject. Don't do that. I know better."

Sherlock stopped what he was doing and turned around to face me. I was not prepared for what I saw in his face; the fierce, firmness there. "Nothing bad happened." He said. "Is that what you wanted to hear?"

"I want the truth." I told him gently. "I don't want to fight. I left. I know that and I'm _sorry_. But I didn't… I'm worried about you, alright? This isn't _you_. Not the you that I left behind."

"Maybe I've changed." Sherlock shot back. "People change, Katherine."

Holding up my hands in surrender, I shook my head. "Look, I'm sorry. I should have never said anything."

"You're right." He grumbled. "You shouldn't have."

Neither of us said anything for a few minutes after that. I was too busy mentally kicking myself to even think of something to say that would diffuse the obvious tension that now filled the room. And it was then that I noticed…

"My chair." I told him. "You… _where_ is it?"

"I moved it." Sherlock brushed past me, my cuppa left sitting on the counter as if to show me just how much I had screwed up the moment. "It was blocking my view."

An incredulous eyebrow climbed my forehead as I glanced between Sherlock's armchair and the empty space leading up to the kitchen. "Blocked your view to where? To the _kitchen_?"

"Mmm." He muttered, no longer engaging.

Fighting off a scream of utter frustration, I plopped back down on the couch. I wasn't in the mood for tea anymore. I wasn't in the mood for any of this. What I _was_ in the mood for was the much needed, though impossible, task of literally kicking myself in the ass.

"Sherlock, please talk to me." I pleaded softly after another moment of silence. "Why did you move the chair? What is going on?"

"You left." He said simply. "If you're planning on staying, I can put it back. I don't see the problem."

"Forget the chair. Just forget that." I told him. "Just… can you please just talk to me? You used to. Sort of. About cases, at least. We used to talk."

Sherlock seemed to be thinking about it. That was progress, I supposed. He could have just ignored me completely and gone on about his business. Which, now that I was looking around a little, I realized that I didn't see many signs of him actually working a case. No discarded nicotine patches or messy piles of books. No laptop anywhere. No notes. No maps. Nothing.

Other than the Reichenbach case, which he might have closed, I saw no sign of him having a life outside of this flat.

"You watch telly." Sherlock answered me back finally. "You know everything you need to know."

"About your case? Are you still working on it?"

He paused for a moment. "No. It's… closed."

"You don't seem sure."

"I _am_ sure." Sherlock snapped. "Why are you asking so many questions?"

"Because this is how people have conversations! People ask questions and have them answered and then they ask _more_ questions. I've _missed _you, Sherlock. Don't you get that?"

"I don't see why." He said. "I hardly noticed that you were-"

"Don't." I stopped him right before he could deliver the final blow. "Don't you dare lie. You did notice. People who don't notice things and don't miss people don't send texts asking, no, _telling_ their friends to come home. And you did that. So you can't sit there and tell me that you didn't notice my absence. Not only would it be an absolute lie, it would kill me. And if you care about me, you won't say that. Think it. Write it down. Tell _Mrs. Hudson_, if you like. But don't you dare say it to me."

His mouth opened and closed a few times before he sighed and sat up straight so that he could look me in the eye.

"I'm sorry."

Now _this_ was definitely new. And I appreciated it very much, but some small part of me felt like he was apologizing for more than his conscious insensitivity. Something that I couldn't see at the moment or didn't know about. It was disconcerting.

But all I said was 'thank you' and I left it alone. I didn't want to have a repeat of the mini-argument that we'd just had. Not when I hadn't been sitting with him for a whole of ten minutes.

Things were, thanks to me, sitting on the line between being strained and being awkward. I didn't know which I preferred, but I would have probably gone with awkward if forced.

After another few minutes of nothingness, I shifted in my seat and looked up at him again, trying to catch his eye. "So… where's Mrs. Hudson?"

"Out shopping." Sherlock told me, his gaze flicking between me and the window. "Said she'd be back later."

"Oh." I said, but I wasn't really listening. He could have told me he'd gotten a _tattoo_ and I would have muttered something encouraging, so distracted was I by the way he was watching the street below. He was worried about something. _Very _worried. And I'd never seen that before, not since the night he'd escorted me to my family dinner at Christmas. Even that wasn't nearly as noticeable as it was now. "Are you expecting someone?"

I could have sworn I saw him flinch. It was small enough that it could have been missed had I not been watching him diligently. Before he could answer me, his phone buzzed on the table. Sherlock nearly lunged for it, checking the new message quickly before looking back up at me.

"Stay here."

I watched him rise from his armchair and toss his robe aside before walking toward the rack where he'd always kept his coat and scarf.

"What? Where are you going?" I asked, getting to my feet. For some reason, I felt like I was about to panic, though I didn't know what I had to panic about. He was acting so bloody _strange_.

"Bart's." He answered me softly. "Molly has something for me."

"Well…" I crossed my arms. "Can't I go with you, then? You've taken me along before. I've met Molly."

"No." Sherlock insisted firmly. "This is not something for an _amateur _to be involved in. It's much too important."

Scoffing so as to mask my hurt, I rolled my eyes as best as I could. "Whatever. I'll just… go see my dad. Kill some time."

"_No_!"

Sherlock's sudden outburst was loud and unexpected enough that I flinched as if he'd hit me. _Now_ was the moment for me to worry. I could feel it. Something just was absolutely not right. But, when he saw how he'd startled me, Sherlock sighed and glanced between me and the window for what had to be the eighth time.

"I'm telling you to stay here." He murmured gently. "Just… do as I ask. Please, Katherine."

How was I supposed to do that? How could he expect me to? He was suddenly so different and he expected me to roll with it like it was natural. Everything in my body was screaming at me, telling me not to let him go. To keep him right where he was. To tell the truth. But I couldn't… I _couldn't_.

"Alright." My voice was hardly above a whisper. "Alright. I'll stay here."

I watched him for a few moments, gauging his disposition with the most discretion that I could manage in the state I was in. Sherlock was hesitant at first, but I thought that it was just because he was trying to make sure that I was telling him the truth. Seeing if I was really going to stay behind while he went to Bart's. Which, I absolutely was not staying at the flat. I would follow him as soon as he was in a cab and out of sight.

Thankfully though, he seemed to believe me.

I had thought that he would have said something before he left. But there was nothing. Not a goodbye or anything to indicate that he would return. He simply turned on his heels and walked down the stairs; he never even looked back.

And so, when I was sure that he had already caught a cab and was on his way to Bart's, I did the only thing I knew that I could.

I followed him.


End file.
